City of Shadows
by beautilation
Summary: CoB AU: Jocelyn Morgenstern gave birth to a second child, her daughter, before she betrayed Valentine and The Circle, and when she left the Shadow World she also left both children behind in fear of what her husband's experiments had done to them. Now, sixteen years later, Valentine sends his daughter to New York City to retrieve the Mortal Cup from her mother.
1. Prologue

Nightmares swirled in front of her as she drifted in a state between dreams and reality. Flashing lights, fire, blood, feathers. Some visions were familiar – her father's hulking form, her brother's deep black eyes – but most were foreign to her. A language she didn't understand, emotions she couldn't comprehend, and places she had never seen, but everything in this haunting dream was laced with the hazy, oppressing weight of pain.

As she floated through her shadowy world, she was distantly aware of her father's rough, large hands releasing her wrists from the heavy chains that had restrained her, and the stabs of agony that shot through her body at the sensation of his touch on her broken, bloody wrists – rubbed raw to the bone from her struggles – brought her unbearably closer to a full state of awareness, without the distraction brought by the disturbing, indecipherable entities that existed within the deepest recesses of her mind.

In the wake of the horrible tortures he had inflicted upon her, her father's hands were deceptively gentle as he washed the blood from her skin with a wet rag and then lifted her broken, battered body from the table and into his large, muscular arms. She felt the sway of his motions as he carried her up the stairs and into the manor – his broad form never faltering under her slender weight – and then through the series of long hallways and twirling staircases that would eventually lead to her bedroom. As he walked, the pain of her injuries jarred her into semi-consciousness, though her eyelids remained heavy and she found herself unable to move or speak, and the haunting images of her dreams followed her throughout the cold, dark house.

In the shadows of a doorway she caught a glimpse of red, demonic eyes that glinted with gleeful madness before they exited her line of sight as her father continued his journey.

A morbid girl with gauze-like wings and corpse-blue skin flashed a toothy grin from where she was perched on a mantelpiece, and her mouth was full of blood that coated her teeth and oozed down her chin.

The macabre visions corresponded with the air of sinister darkness that pervaded every room of the manor, and she shivered at the chilling sense of dread they instilled within her heart. As a particularly disturbing image of a demon with her brother's face leered at her, she curled closer to her father's broad chest, and his arms tightened around her slight form in response. She knew that he could not see the apparitions that plagued their journey, but his quiet concern and protection comforted her nonetheless.

After what seemed like hours, her father reached the large doors to her bedroom and used his shoulder to push them open. He entered the large room and laid her gently on her bed – its familiar comfort and the pain and tiredness caused by her wounds making it increasingly harder to maintain consciousness. Her father opened a drawer of her nightstand and seemed to be looking for something as she stared out a small portion of a large window that wasn't obscured by heavy curtains, distracted and drowsily fascinated with a particular star that seemed brighter than the rest. She heard her father close the drawer and sit next to her on the bed, pulling her towards him and grasping an un-injured portion of her arm. Her weary gaze remained on the bright star outside her window, but she felt the familiar burn of a stele's touch as her father drew a rune on her bloody, bruised skin.

As the rune took effect, the pain of her injuries mercifully faded into a hazy presence that she could ignore, and she shivered as the full weight of exhaustion and hunger pressed down upon her. She allowed her weary eyes to close, her body still shaking with pain and fatigue, and felt the covers drawn up around her fragile figure. She felt his large hand slowly brush against her hair, and he whispered something to her that she was unable to comprehend in her dream-like state. A broken sob broke the silence of the room before she succumbed to unconsciousness completely, lost once more to the haunting, melancholy visions, and weighed down by the pain and sadness and darkness that remained a constant shadow over her heart.


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: Hey there.**

**I know the first chapter/prologue didn't explain much (anything) at all, which is why I didn't want to wait too long to post this second chapter.**

**An explanation: Clary's name is 'Seraphina' because in CoLS Jonathan told Clary that's what Valentine would have named her if it was up to him, and in this story it ****_was_**** up to him, since he raised her. I know it's weird to read about Clary when she has a different name, but in this story she's, naturally, a different character, and the name 'Seraphina' isn't permanent. I have a plan for that.**

**Thank you for reading.**

* * *

_"All monsters must die except the beautiful ones." - Cameron Jace_

* * *

Seraphina Morgenstern awoke the next morning to the glare of bright sunlight streaming through a crack in the drapes and a glaring headache that pulsed behind her eyelids. Her mind slowly registered her surroundings and she groaned softly to herself as she realized that she was probably late for breakfast. She dragged herself out of bed, slowly and shakily, and rose unsteadily to her feet, using furniture for support as she made her way over to her closet.

Her entire body ached and shook, and her skin burned as if with fever, but a quick glance at the skin of her arm assured her that her wounds had been healed by a skillfully drawn iratze. Though she didn't remember anything of the night before, she recognized it as the work of her father by the broadness of the lines and the pressure with which it must have been applied – if her brother had drawn it, she knew, it would look sharper, more angular, and the strokes would be lighter.

A wave of bitterness and anger coursed through her veins, sharpening her vision and bringing a surge of awareness to her senses as she remembered the reason she had needed an iratze in the first place.

It was this anger that gave her the energy to change into black leggings and a black sweater, pull her long, thick hair into a ponytail, and make her way down to the dining room. As she made her way through several hallways, two small staircases, and finally down the large spiral staircase that occupied the center of the manor, she stubbornly ignored the deep-rooted fatigue that had settled into her bones and the haze of pain and hunger that clouded her thoughts. As she entered the dining room, she saw that her father and brother were already seated at the table, though they hadn't been there long judging from the untouched food in front of them. She slowly slipped into the chair across from her brother, on her father's right side, desperately hoping that her father wouldn't punish her for her lateness.

Her worries turned out to be unnecessary; her father was bent over that damned black book of his and was writing in it fervidly, his brow furrowed in concentration. She couldn't make out the words at the angle she was viewing them from, but she knew that it had something to do with his _experiments_. Experiments which, most recently, had been performed on her.

She did her best to conceal her grimace at the bitter taste that the memories brought to her mouth, reaching for a piece of toast from the plate in front of her.

"Good morning, Seraphina," her father said, his deep voice edged with cynicism that was no doubt a result of her tardiness. Despite his irritation, he didn't bother looking up from his notebook, which meant, to her relief, that she wouldn't be receiving a punishment for being late.

She glanced up to see her brother grinning devilishly in her direction, his black eyes unusually luminous in a ray of sunlight that fell across his face from the window behind their father. Seraphina grinned back at him as she took a dainty bite of her toast. She was painfully hungry, but the anguish of her pulsing headache and weary limbs overshadowed the sensation and made her slightly nauseous.

She carefully took in her brother's appearance, looking for signs that he had been treated exceptionally cruelly by their father when she had been absent. Their father tended to be less harsh towards Jonathan when Seraphina was present to act as a sort of buffer, and whenever she returned to the manor after days underground she felt her own suffering overshadowed by a sense of guilt as she saw new bruises and scars marring her brother's pale skin. Today, she noticed a faint shadow under his right eye that looked as though he was healing from a black eye, but she couldn't find any serious injuries. A small sigh of relief escaped her lips; her worry for Jonathan had been a steady weight on her chest since they had been separated… a week ago?

Jonathan, noticing that his sister had been staring at him, shot her an irritated glance, and Seraphina quickly diverted her eyes. She and her brother were at each other's throats more often than not, but she had missed his company while in the dark confines of their father's underground laboratory. Despite the capricious, troubled nature of their relationship, Jonathan and Seraphina possessed a deep understanding of each other, however abnormal, and it provided each of them with at least a small sense of comfort that she rarely noticed until she was forced to live without it.

The siblings remained silent throughout breakfast, as was normal; their father still writing in his black book and occasionally flipping pages to review past research, Jonathan attempting to read their father's notes without him noticing, and Seraphina fighting a pounding headache and her desire to lay her head on the table and sleep for a few more hours… or days.

After breakfast the trio made their way to the training room, as was their routine. Jonathan and Seraphina trailed a few feet behind their father so that they could whisper what they had failed to communicate silently at the table.

"Was it… bad?" Jonathan asked while avoiding her eyes. "I heard you scream, and you don't usually…" His voice trailed off uncertainly; she guessed as a result of awkwardness at mentioning anything that required compassion or sympathy as well as a hesitant fear that she might lash out at him for bringing up her weakness while at the hands of their father. Under normal circumstances she might have reacted that way – fights had certainly erupted between them for far less – but she didn't have the energy to expend on a fight so close to a training session. Besides, starting fights had always been more Jonathan's tendency than her own.

"I'm all right," she assured him, but her body still shook slightly and she was having a difficult time focusing on anything important. Her wounds had been healed by her father's iratze, but the memory of pain remained like a malevolent shadow in her bones. The anger that she had found within herself when she first woke up had faded, and without it she simply didn't have the energy to maintain the sharp awareness that she normally possessed. As was normal after days of her father's sadistic experiments, life had taken on a dream-like quality – she felt far away from everything; she was detached, emotionless, and unable to organize her thoughts. From the doubtful glance Jonathan threw in her direction, she knew that he didn't believe her reassurance, but before he could say anything they passed through the large doors and entered the training room, and they now had their father's full attention.

"Today," he began, the usual commanding tone lacing his deep voice, "shouldn't be too difficult for either of you. You'll be sparring with each other, and then you can have the rest of the day to yourselves. I have some business to attend to."

Seraphina kept her face neutral, but internally she groaned at the prospect of fighting her brother. A part of her had hoped that today would be simple – some language practice, perhaps, or a lesson on fighting with two blades at once, which they had begun practicing last week. She was exhausted, and her body still ached from the ordeal of the past few days with her father, but she should have known he would use this opportunity to test her even further.

She couldn't have gotten more than four hours of sleep the night before, judging from the window that took up most of the east wall of the training room, revealing that the sun was still low on the horizon. That, combined with the weakness that came from being starved and tortured in the cellar for the last week, meant that this fight wouldn't be easy for her.

Their father stood with his back to the window and began a brief instruction on hand-to-hand combat, but, in her state of enervation, Seraphina lacked the mental capacity to focus on what he was saying. Instead of wasting her energy trying to comprehend the lesson that she was sure she had heard a million times before, she gazed out the window behind her father, observing the small stirrings of life taking place among the trees surrounding the manor, and hoping that her father thought it was him she was looking at. It was while she found herself completely absorbed in the activities of a small sparrow that her father finished his brief instruction and retreated to lean against a shadowed wall to their right, which obscured him from their view.

Jonathan immediately turned to face her, his stance guarded and prepared. Seraphina reacted similarly, forcing herself to focus as much as she possibly could – on his eyes, the movement of his muscles, the length of his steps as they circled each other slowly. For a moment, gazing into her brother's eyes, she saw concern there, and hesitation and remorse and resentment, and she knew that he didn't want to her any more than she wanted to hurt him.

Allowing her mind to wander, she pondered the strangeness of that. That they didn't want to hurt each other. It was strange because they hurt each other all the time. They were always fighting, Jonathan was always angry, she was always miserable and unpredictable, one or both of them was always hurting.

But this was different. This wasn't Jonathan punishing her for being too distant or aloof or fickle, this wasn't Seraphina starting a fight to regain her brother's attention or alleviate her own undying boredom. This was their father, forcing them to hurt each other for his own purposes. And in their hearts - their dark hearts tied together, beating in perfect sync - it felt wrong. It made them angry. They didn't want to do it.

Seraphina shook her head, cleared her thoughts, told herself it was only training. She didn't have to hurt her brother if she didn't want to. She could try to hold back - even let him win, if she wanted to. And maybe he would catch on and he would hold back too, and they would win this small, silent battle against their father.

But then, as she continued to stare into her brother's eyes, she saw it happen. She saw his concern and hesitation deflagrated in a column of black fire. She felt the dark song of a demon heart curl through his mind. She saw the violence and rage spark in his eyes, and a soft sigh escaped her lips, because she knew that she had lost him.

Things often happened this way with Jonathan; he was capable of affection and tenderness - even love, she knew, though he rarely said the word out loud - when they were alone, when it was just him and her and the rhythm of their hearts. But their father was quickly becoming an obstacle to their relationship, a looming dark figure that plunged Jonathan into cruelty and darkness and Seraphina into misery and loneliness just to keep them apart from each other.

Their fight hadn't begun yet, but already Seraphina saw the blind rage flashing through her brother's eyes like the glint of moonlight against steel. She had to give her father credit for his cleverness; they both knew that Jonathan possessed an eternal, unfathomable darkness, as wide and deep as an ocean of black fire. The rage wasn't for her, she knew; it was aimless and blind and endless. But it needed to go somewhere, and now their father had given Jonathan an outlet for it - her.

In her mind, she went through how to conserve what little energy she had and somehow win this fight against her brother, but she knew that it wouldn't be easy; if anything it would be almost impossible. He was well-rested, and now his very nature would be harsh, violent, and unforgiving. Seraphina, on the other hand, was sleep-deprived, malnourished, and she lacked her brother's capability to fight mindlessly. While oftentimes this was an asset – Seraphina had always been more adept at strategizing than Jonathan, who rushed into everything sword-first – in the current situation it was a hindrance. Jonathan was lost to the darkness inside him now, his demon blood surging through him and burning his thoughts away like acid.

These thoughts flashed through her mind in the stunted fragments that usually occupied her mind during a fight, but, as she had feared, her fatigue made it impossible to comprehend them as quickly as she normally did. This fight was already looking badly for her, and they had yet to exchange blows.

She and Jonathan had only circled each other a few times, but she could see her brother growing impatient, and she could sense that her father felt the same from his faint stirrings. She decided to let Jonathan make the first move; her small stature combined with her current lack of strength and vitality meant that it would be in her best interest to focus on the defensive unless a supreme opportunity presented itself.

Their father coughed in the darkness from which he watched them, breaking the heavy silence of the large room. That meant he was impatient. Seraphina didn't have the heart to care. She had woken up angry with her father, and now she was even angrier. Her first day back with her brother, and already their father had ruined it by turning him into a monster. It wouldn't last forever; Seraphina could fix this, she always could. But that didn't mean it wouldn't hurt to feel her brother's ruthless blows against her skin when, moments before, they had been happy and for once he hadn't wanted to hurt her.

But their fight had to begin eventually. They could be as angry and sullen as they wanted, but in the end they were powerless in their father's control. He had created them, and he would use them as he wished. That knowledge was a part of them, its own element of their soft heart-song. She wondered if Jonathan was holding back because a part of him still didn't want to hurt her, because maybe he was getting better at holding back his demonic nature on his own, or because their father had punished him a few weeks ago for beginning fights without adequate strategizing first.

Both of them had always had issues with patience. Usually it was Seraphina who broke first - she was always restless, and she had always been more rebellious. But now that Jonathan's demonic nature had overcome him, he would lose this battle of wills, she knew. Judging from the tenseness of his muscles and the distracted look in his black eyes, it wouldn't be long before he lost control completely and began the fight.

Her prediction was proven correct about a minute later when Jonathan let out an animalistic growl and launched himself in her direction, throwing a punch that was meant to distract her from a simultaneous kick at her left kneecap. Several different options flashed through her mind as to how to retaliate, but she discarded each of them immediately, knowing that she didn't have the strength to execute any of them successfully. Instead, she jumped to the side and fell to one knee, then rolled on to one shoulder in an attempt to get behind Jonathan.

He spun around almost as quickly as she had gotten behind him and aimed a kick at her chest, which gave her two options: she could roll backwards to avoid it, but that would be almost pointless – it wouldn't be difficult for him to step forward and repeat the attack. That left her with her second option as the only logical decision, but she knew that it was a risky move considering how weak she was. She caught his foot with her right hand before it hit her chest and twisted, attempting to use his own momentum to force him to the ground. Her worries had been correct – she wasn't strong enough to complete the maneuver as she had planned, but it did, however, make him lose his balance. She shoved his foot away from her and used the brief lapse in his attack while he regained his footing to get to her feet and attempt to establish a sense of composure.

Jonathan sprung lithely to his feet and began pacing towards her, his movements cautious once again and his expression guarded. Seraphina felt a vague flash of satisfaction that even in her lethargy she had exceeded his expectations of her. Jonathan was larger than her, and stronger, and more ruthless, and over years of volatile violence between them he had grown accustomed to besting her, and even more accustomed to using his strength to get what he wanted from her. After a "session" - as they called them - like the one she had just suffered, he must have been very confident that he would defeat her without much difficulty. He _would _defeat her, eventually, but she would make it difficult if it took everything she had.

She saw his muscles tense and her body reacted in the fraction of a second that remained before he came at her again; she sprang at him before he could make his move, landing a right hook on his cheek. He tried to veer away from her, but she locked her right leg around the back of his left and attempted to use his momentum against him another time and cause him to lose his balance. He stumbled but managed to catch himself before he fell.

She tried to extract him from her grip and establish some distance between them while he was still off-balance, but he didn't let her unhook her leg from his and instead started drawing her closer to him. She aimed a hit at his shoulder in an attempt to make him lose his balance again but he caught her wrist and pulled it behind him, forcing her to collide with his chest. She twisted frantically, but his grip was firm, and he was too strong. She saw his free arm, the one that wasn't gripping her wrist, begin to arc towards her for a hit that she knew could end the fight if he had enough force behind it, so in a last, desperate attempt, she pushed herself up on to her toes until the top of her head was level with his mouth and brought her head forward, slamming it against him. He grunted in pain and reeled away from her, one of his legs catching behind her right leg and sending her sprawling towards the ground. She spun in the air and caught all of her weight with her arms, lowered her body to the floor, and then sprang back to her feet with as much grace as she could muster, but what feeble strength she had possessed at the beginning of the fight was already faltering.

She found solace in the thought that her father hated headbutts. He thought they were foolish, useless, and immature. No doubt her maneuver - and its success - had irritated him, and that made her happy in a fleeting, juvenile way.

Jonathan was on his feet just a few seconds after she had recovered, blood covering his teeth and dripping out of his mouth and down his chin. The blood combined with the glaring, black depths of his eyes gave him a gruesome, animalistic appearance, and Seraphina was harshly reminded of the dark visions that thrived in the confines of her nightmares, which most often plagued her when she was the subject of their father's experiments. She struggled not to allow herself to think of those horrific tortures, but disjointed memories still flashed through her mind – the rattle of chains, the drip of blood, the touch of a needle. Hunger, thirst, and, above all, pain. Always pain. Frantically, she shook her head to clear her thoughts and restore her mind to the calm, composed state that she made a constant, brutal effort to maintain.

The distraction couldn't have lasted more than a few seconds, but her brother had seen his opportunity and leaped towards her, slamming her body into the hardwood floor. Jarring pain coursed through her body, but she managed to think through it and get her legs underneath him to kick him off of her. Once they were both on their feet, their attacks commenced yet again.

They continued as such for over an hour, and it wasn't long before each sibling was battered, bruised, and bleeding. Against any other Shadowhunter, either of them would have won mere minutes into the fight, but their fights against each other were always long and grueling. Despair rooted itself deeper into Seraphina's chest each time she suffered an unyielding blow from her brother and felt the tangible decrease in her strength. She wasn't strong enough to beat him, not today, and she had known it since the moment they started. But even in her hopelessness, she refused to let the fight end. She hated losing, especially to her brother, but even greater than that was her insatiable need to please their father - the burning desire that had awakened now that her brother had turned his back on her.

Jonathan landed a vicious blow to her ribcage for what must have been the sixth or seventh time, and this time she felt one of her ribs crack as his fist smashed cruelly into her side. She gasped and staggered backwards, planning to twist and elbow him in the chest using a blow to his hip as a distraction, but before she could make her move he came at her again, forcing her to step backwards again to avoid a hit at her shoulder.

With alarm she realized that her step backwards had brought her less than five feet from the wall at her back, and she knew that if she didn't find a way to force her brother back in return he would win the fight. Her small, slender build was in stark contrast to his tall, muscular form, and being backed into a corner always meant the end of a fight for her. Her father had been teaching Seraphina how to use her small stature to her advantage since she was a child, and her fighting style depended on agility, speed, and space. Unfortunately, he had naturally taught Jonathan how to use his build to his advantage as well, and Jonathan was implementing those methods now as he relied on brute strength to gradually weaken her and force her onto the defensive.

With no room to maneuver, Seraphina found herself in a hopeless position. Her brother launched another flurry of hits on her abused body, and as she desperately tried to avoid them she found herself brought even closer to the wall behind her. Her brother briefly halted in his assault when she let out a deep, rattling cough that sent blood spraying out of her mouth, and she saw a flicker of emotion cross his face - her brother was back, just for a moment, and she saw his guilt and his pain and felt their hearts give one, identical stutter. But then darkness came rushing back, overcoming him once more, and he came at her again, slamming her into the wall that was now directly behind her.

She found herself pinned to the wall by his body as he prepared to hit her, no doubt to knock her out and end the fight, but before he could she grabbed his throat and squeezed until she felt him gasp and pull away from her. She let him, shoving his chest to push him further away from her and gain some room to move. She saw scratches on his neck where her nails had dug into his flesh, and while he was still catching his breath she slammed a fist into his windpipe, attempting to immobilize him for at least a moment.

Seraphina saw Jonathan's black eyes glint with fury as he gasped for air, and then, before she could react, he launched his tall, muscular body against her, driving them both to the floor. His heavy form pushed down against her delicate figure and she whimpered as her bruises and battered bones protested sharply at his weight against her. She squirmed frantically beneath him as he gasped against her skin, still catching his breath from her blow to his throat. He grunted with effort as he repressed her struggles, using his hands to restrain her wrists and pinning her legs down with one knee. She writhed against him in desperation, but his solid grip and firm strength were unyielding, and she knew that the fight was over.

Jonathan smiled sadistically at her feeble struggles, knowing that he had won. Seraphina knew it, too, but she still gave one last attempt at bringing him pain as she tore one of her wrists from his grasp, feeling the ligaments grind against the bone as she did so, and clawed her hand across his face and down his neck. He hissed in pain and viciously re-captured her wrist in a harsh grip, once again slamming it down to the floor and holding it there. He continued to enjoy her hopeless struggles and pressed his weight even harder against her until it was all she could do to find room to breathe.

Suddenly, a deep, primal fury roared through her blood, glazing over her vision with a crimson hue and sending her heart racing within her chest. This anger was blinding, burning, rampant. She was disgusted with the demon whose form lay on top of her. She needed to destroy him – him, and the darkness that thrived within his skin. She snarled at the damned black eyes that glinted above her, no longer trying to get away from him, but instead trying to get closer. Closer. Close enough to hurt him, kill him, abolish him.

Her body was no longer her own. Her anger was not her own. Her rage was an instinct, older than time itself. She bared her teeth, snapping at his throat, desperate to obliterate his evil, damned soul. Just as Jonathan's demon blood had overcome him, her angelic blood burned away her sense of self and tore through her mind like a wild, torrential storm.

Her sharp, snapping teeth grazed his throat – nowhere near deep enough – and she saw a primitive rage ignite in his eyes, in a dark, distorted reflection of her own.

He transferred both of her delicate wrists into one of his large hands and brought the other up to her hair, snaking his fingers into the red waves and using the grip to force her head down on to the floor, and then twisting it so that the side of her face was pressed against the cold wood. Anticipating his intentions, Seraphina writhed against him once more, frantically and furiously, but she was helpless as he lowered his face towards her. His lips found her exposed neck and his fingers in her hair kept her face pinned to the floor as he bit the tender skin in a brutal display of possession. She yelped at the pain and felt his sharp teeth draw blood.

"That's enough," their father declared in a harsh voice.

Jonathan let out a low laugh and eased his hold on her but continued to pin her down for several moments, reveling in his power over her. She hissed at him and shoved at his chest, and he laughed once again. She glanced at her father and saw that he was writing in his black book again, not paying much attention to them and apparently having assumed that they had followed his orders to stop fighting. Jonathan followed her gaze and, upon noticing their father's preoccupation, flashed a cruel smile at her before bending down and slowly licking the trail of blood that had dripped down her neck from the bite marks he had inflicted. She whimpered in disgust and shoved at him again, and he finally released his hold on her to stand up and face their father.

She struggled weakly to her feet – the rage dwindling out of her blood second by second – letting out another deep cough that brought blood gurgling up her throat.

Their father finished the notes he was writing in his book and looked up at them where they stood in front of him, awaiting instructions of some sort. He glanced between the two of them for a moment, seemingly deep in thought, and then dismissed them with a wave of his hand.

Seraphina rushed ahead of her brother despite the pain of her fractured left ankle, not wanting to look into his cold, black eyes or see the sick, demonic triumph in his expression.

She made her way through the long hallways and various staircases of the manner, gritting her teeth through the pain of her wounds. She stubbornly refused to draw an iratze to heal her injuries, at least until she reached her bedroom, resolving to suffer through the agony as a form of self-inflicted punishment for her failure. Shame coursed through her veins at the memory of her defeat at the hands of her brother, and she couldn't help but turn the fight over in her mind, wondering what she could have done to win.

Her shame and frustration had nearly blinded her to the pain of her injuries when she finally reached the double doors to her bedroom, in the back corner of the manor on the highest floor. She stormed across the room and into to her bathroom, hoping that a shower might calm her. The hot water stung painfully on her wounds and she winced, but still she stubbornly refused to heal herself, preferring the sharp stings and deep throbs to remain as a distraction to her growing anger and humiliation.

When the water swirling down into the drain was no longer tinted pink with blood, she exited the shower and found the most comfortable clothes she could – leggings and her favorite sweater. As she pulled it over her head, her ribs – a few cracked and the others bruised – sent a sharp stab of agony through her body and she gasped in pain. She mentally cataloged her injuries – a nearly dislocated shoulder, a sprained ankle, her battered ribs, and countless bruises and cuts from being pushed around the training room and slammed to the ground by her brother.

It hurt – a lot – but her pain tolerance was fairly high, and with self-loathing she told herself that she didn't deserve to be healed of the pain. She deserved it, and she was lucky that her father hadn't decided to inflict more upon her for her failure. He did that, sometimes. As her self-contempt grew like a dark ocean swell, the pain of her injuries was slowly drowned out by its force as it crashed mercilessly through her mind.

She had lost that fight because of her emotion. If she had been able to forget, for just one hour, that she was fighting her brother, she could have won. She could have slammed his head into the floor until he lost consciousness after he had lost his balance, when he failed to grab her as she ran past him, and that had been just 20 minutes into the fight. She could have aimed more hits at his left side where she was sure she had bruised a rib, and gradually weakened his defense that way. But instead, she had paused repeatedly to allow him to regain his balance, and avoided hitting places where she knew he was hurting, because he was her brother. Even though he hadn't extended her the same courtesy, she had done what she could to avoid being too cruel – even as he hit her bruised ribs over and over until they cracked, and aimed hits at her chest and her throat, and used her weakness and tiredness against her the entire fight.

But even as she cursed herself for not being crueler, she knew she could never have done those things to her brother. As angry as she was with him, she knew it was their father she was really angry with. Jonathan couldn't help it. His demon blood was strong and cruel and wrathful. She knew he tried to fight it, but he couldn't do it alone. And she had been gone for a while, unable to help him, and she knew it must have been burning him from the inside in her absence. And then their father had taken advantage of it, forcing Jonathan into the darkness even though it hurt him, hurt _both _of them.

Now her brother was lost in darkness, and when he returned to himself he would be remorseful and self-loathing and he would take it out on her. Now she was alone, trapped inside her own mind by self-hate, and anger, and pain, and the knowledge that her father was disappointed in her.

Consumed by anger and frustration, she walked over to the large window that took up almost an entire wall of her room and collapsed on the bench beside it, grabbing her sketchbook from where she had left it days ago, before her father had come for her to run more experiments in the underground laboratory. In an attempt to calm herself, she flipped through the pages to look at past drawings before beginning a new one, but given the contents of her sketchbook it didn't help much. Her sketchbook was as a sort of diary for her; each drawing was her strange attempt at expressing her emotions. Which meant, naturally, that the images were quite disturbing. As she flipped through the pages she saw gruesome monsters and falling angels and blood and pain and death – the images that whirled tumultuously through her mind at every moment and thrived within her nightmares.

After flipping through about twenty pages of horror, misery, and gore, she grew impatient and skipped to the next clean page as her dark emotions clouded her thoughts further and further. As her pencil created harsh, sharp lines on the page, she found it easier and easier to forget the fight and ignore her pain. Whenever she worked on her art she felt as if she was in a world where time didn't exist and nothing really mattered, both of which were largely relieving, but what she liked most of all was how alone she felt. Her mind was an impenetrable fortress, and no one could follow her there. Not her father, not her brother, not a single soul. There was only her, alone with her thoughts. They were disturbing, melancholic thoughts, yes, but they were very much _hers_, and their pulsing darkness was comforting in its familiarity.

When she finished the drawing, about an hour later, she found herself looking at a monster. A monster with her father's face. His dark eyes, his straight nose, his high cheekbones. There were a few variations – pointed, blackened teeth instead of her father's straight, white ones; sharp, gruesome claws instead of her father's neatly trimmed fingernails – but it was undeniably her father, surrounded by darkness, smiling with malice, blood dripping from his mouth and his claws.

Her father liked to think that Jonathan was the monster, and in doing so conveniently forgot that he was the one who created Jonathan in the first place. Seraphina knew the truth. Jonathan wasn't a monster any more than she was an angel. He was her brother, and he was as lost and miserable as she was, and it wasn't his fault.

She was still contemplating the picture when she started coughing – deep, painful, coughs that shook her entire body. In her frustration and later preoccupation with her artwork, she still hadn't healed her injuries. As she remembered her wounds, the pain slowly drifted to the forefront of her consciousness, transforming from a dull haze into a piercing agony.

Painfully, she stretched out her muscles and stood from the soft bench to walk to her bed in the center of the room. She looked in the drawer of her nightstand where she kept her stele, only to find that it wasn't there. Confused, she looked in the other drawers but still didn't find it. She _always_ kept it in the same place. What happened to it?

Just when she began to grow frustrated, she caught sight of it on her bed, partially hidden by the thick, black comforter. That's when she remembered – her father had healed her last night of the wounds from his session with her. He must have used her stele instead of his own and forgotten to put it back where it belonged. Another memory from last night emerged from the haze of her turbulent thoughts for a brief moment – an unexpected display of tenderness, a pained cry – but then it slipped away again, back into the haze, and she let it fade into the darkness of her mind without effort. She was too tired to battle her memories today.

Seraphina sat down on the bed and drew an iratze on her arm, willing herself not to remember the past few days she had spent with her father underground. She wouldn't remember. She _couldn't_ remember. She didn't want to relive her suffering or the look in her father's eyes as he loomed over her in the cold darkness.

She collapsed on her bed and buried her head in a pillow, still desperately willing herself to either think of something else or nothing at all. As she felt a memory slip between her mental defenses – her father's face looming over her, a needle in his hand – she pulled her hair, hard, to bring herself back to reality. She found herself unbearably frustrated with her lack of control. This always happened to her, this loss of control over her emotions, this inability to contain her memories. But it was beginning to grow more and more destructive, more painful and distracting. It wasn't uncommon for her to become lost in her melancholy for days. She was starting to see things, she was growing increasingly more violent and sullen. She was falling apart.

Attempting to calm herself, she rolled over onto her back and stared at the ceiling, high above her and dark blue with silver stars. She had painted it years ago to look like the night sky, and whenever she found her mind becoming too chaotic, she counted the stars. She preferred to count _real_ stars, of course, but during the daytime the shimmering silver stars painted above her were her only option.

Seraphina reached a count of 317 before her mind calmed enough to allow her body to succumb to its exhaustion, and she closed her eyes.

* * *

**I'd love to hear any questions, comments, or criticisms you might have, so please feel free to leave a review.**


	3. Chapter 3

**The disclaimer I forgot to add earlier: I do not own The Mortal Instruments or its characters. All rights go to the amazing Cassandra Clare.**

**I'd like to thank everyone who has read, reviewed, followed, or favorited this story so far. It means a lot to me.**

**I was able to respond to two of the reviewers through PM, but to the other two (****_Fan-girl _****and ****_FALlen ANGels 1234) _****who reviewed - thanks for your feedback! It is much appreciated.**

**I hope you guys are liking this story so far, and I'd just like to clarify (Clary-fy? haha terrible pun. gross.) a few things:**

**1) The M rating is a bit on the safe side, at least for now.**

**2) I know the summary for this story is about Seraphina/Clary going to New York, but she'll be at home for a few chapters. I promise, Jace and the Lightwoods (et al.) ****_will _****be a part of this story, just not right away.**

* * *

_"I am a forest, and a night of dark trees: but he who is not afraid of my darkness, will find banks full of roses under my cypresses." – Friedrich Nietzsche_

* * *

The sound of footsteps outside the closed doors of her bedroom roused Seraphina from her slumber. Her eyes snapped open, and she sat up, wondering if it was her brother or her father, and what it was they wanted.

She got out of her bed and made her way over to the doors in light leaps across the lush carpet of her bedroom floor, making sure that she remained silent. The footsteps had almost reached her room.

She pressed her ear against the dark wood of the left door, trying to discern who was making their way down the hall. Whoever it was wasn't wearing shoes, which made her almost certain that it was her brother. Her father wasn't the type to walk around barefoot – he almost never dressed casually. Before she could decide for sure if the footsteps really did belong to her brother, they reached the tall doors to her bedroom and stopped.

Now she was positive that it was Jonathan. If it had been her father, he would have walked in already – he never knocked.

She waited in silence; her ear still pressed against the door, for her brother to knock, or open the doors, or say something.

Finally he knocked on the door she was leaning against – softly, but it still startled her. Still enraged with his behavior that morning, she didn't answer.

"Phina?" he whispered, and it sounded like he had his face pressed against the door, too. The use of the nickname he had used when they were children jarred her, and she almost forgot her anger and opened the door for him. As she reached for the handle, though, she remembered the cruel, ruthless look in his black eyes as he slammed her to the ground, and she stopped.

"Please let me in?" The softness of his voice surprised her, but still she refused to answer. Seraphina knew more than anyone how charming he could be when he wanted to be, and she wasn't about to fall for his quiet words and false, if persuasive, apologies.

She heard him sigh before she heard a faint rattling that sounded like glass dishes knocking against each other. She kept her face pressed against the door as she listened to her brother's footsteps return the way they had come, a small, sad part of her wishing that she had answered him.

When she was sure that he was gone from her wing of the manor, she stepped back from her position to cautiously open one of the doors. On the floor outside her room was a tray holding a bowl of fruit, a few crackers, and a cup of tea. Sighing, she opened the door the rest of the way and bent down, picking up the tray and retreating into her room.

She left the tray on her nightstand collapsed back onto her bed, the haze of sleep still not entirely faded from her mind. That same small part of her felt slightly guilty that she had turned her brother away, but the logical part of her mind remained in control as usual, reminding her of the cruel, degrading, disturbing way he had treated her during the fight. She felt a twinge of disgust at the memory of the animalistic rage that had ignited in his eyes, his mouth on her neck, his teeth piercing her skin.

But Seraphina had lost herself too, the small whisper reminded her. Hadn't she acted just the same? Hadn't she snapped at his neck, desperate to rip open his throat with her teeth, like an animal? She was all too familiar with the killing rage that had consumed her brother, because she had felt it, too. She had no doubt that it was the supernatural element of their blood – his demon, hers angel.

Oftentimes, it was not terribly obvious that Seraphina and Jonathan's blood had been tampered with, augmented by the raw power of the two great forces that governed their world – good and evil, light and darkness. Angels and demons. They were stronger and faster than other Nephilim, and Seraphina had her runes, but those characteristics were only obvious when they wanted them to be, and for the most part they could appear quite normal.

But the opposite nature of their blood had led to quite the perplexing relationship between her brother and her. They would be inseparable one moment, drawn to each other by a sense of deep understanding and recognition, or some kind of morbid attraction; and at each other's throats the next, overcome with hatred and an insuppressible thirst for violence. Many of these outbursts were mild, occurring almost on a daily basis – a flash of annoyance on one of their parts, followed by a short scuffle comprised mostly of scratching, slapping and pushing, with the occasional punch or hair pull. But there were other times when the ancient blood in their veins seethed with such fury they couldn't comprehend it, and the results were long, destructive fights of biting, snarling brutality. This volatile relationship of extreme adoration and closeness followed without warning by vehement hatred and destruction in a vicious, never ending cycle was something that Seraphina couldn't explain if she tried. Even Valentine didn't understand it, though he spent enough time scribbling on about it in his damned black book.

Compared to some of the battles they had had in the past, their brief rage today had been quite harmless. But it had still been what she thought of as the "old" rage – the primal instincts of their blood, in opposition to each other since the dawn of existence, had ignited, singing of destruction.

The small part of Seraphina's mind was growing louder, telling her that she should go and find her brother, that she shouldn't have been so heartless. He had a hard enough time showing kindness or love, and she was the only one he had shown them to his entire life. She was the one person in the world who was ever kind and patient with him, the only one who understood him and tried to help him feel – actually _feel_, not pretend to. What kind of person was she to turn her back on him because he had lost control when she had done the same thing?

_You're all he has_, the small part whispered.

"Shut up," she muttered in reply.

A mad giggle escaped her lips at the thought that she had answered a voice inside her head, and she wondered if her father had ever run mental health tests in addition to the grueling physical procedures when she was blacked out in his underground office. And then she giggled some more at the thought of her father, of all people, deciding who was sane and who wasn't.

Her laughs faded into silence, the small sadness in her heart growing larger as memories of her brother and she flashed through her mind. He had done many cruel things to her throughout their childhood. Things their father didn't even know about. But –

_I'm all he has._

When she found herself still unable to decide whether to go find her brother or not several minutes later, she decided to stay in her room by herself. Her motivations in going to see him were purely emotional in nature, and acting on them would be what her father would consider a terrible decision. On the other hand, she had several logical reasons to remain in her room. She could be productive, recover from the past week with her father, and going to find her brother would only give him the impression that he could control her by appealing to her emotions. A weakness, without a doubt.

Besides, he had won the fight, and by extension their father's approval – if only temporarily. He didn't need her sympathy today, nor did he particularly deserve it. Her day would be much better spent doing something more purposeful.

Resolutely silencing the prating, emotional thoughts that she had annoyingly allowed to distract her from doing something industrious, she got off of the bed and made her way over to the bookshelf across the room.

Their father had given them the day off to take care of his "business", but both Jonathan and Seraphina understood that they didn't actually have the day to themselves. Their father would expect them to be training in some way; combat practice, or perhaps just some research on techniques they hadn't yet perfected, or, as she had chosen, brushing up on their language skills.

She settled onto her bed with a book written in French on the subject of the role of demons in various phases of the Mundanes' history, occasionally reaching over to sip tea from the mug that Jonathan had brought her. She had reached World War 1 and an intriguing theory about the potential involvement of demon possession in a certain leader's violent genocide when the increasingly dim lighting of her bedroom alerted her to two things: the sun had almost set, and she was extremely tired.

With a sigh, Seraphina closed the book and threw it to the end of her bed. Her father wouldn't approve of her not placing it back in its proper place, but after the week she had had with him that knowledge only served to provide her with a small, immature sense of satisfaction. She found herself gazing at the stars on her ceiling once more, but it took much less time than before for her mind to settle into a fragile silence as she fell into a restless sleep, haunted by the image of her brother's black eyes and her blood dripping from his lips.

* * *

A touch on her shoulder jolted Seraphina awake some hours later, and her eyes snapped open to see her father next to her bed. Despite immediately realizing she wasn't being attacked or threatened, adrenaline coursed through her veins and forced the last vestiges of sleep from her muscles.

"Up," he ordered quietly. "You have five minutes."

Without another word he strode out of her room, leaving her alone with the pounding of her racing heart.

She sprang out of bed and quickly changed her clothes, choosing the first items she found in her closet – leggings and a large fleece pullover, both black. Walking further into her closet to where she kept her weapons, she chose a dagger and a thigh sheath that would be hidden underneath the too-long fleece jacket, hoping it would be enough for whatever her father had planned.

Figuring she was almost out of time, she grabbed her shoes as she ran across her bedroom and out the doors. She stumbled several times as she made her way through the dark, silent hallways of the manor while trying to get the shoes on her feet without breaking too much speed. Finally, after stopping to lean against walls several times to pull them on between her rushing strides, she was fully dressed and – by her judgment – not doing too poorly on time.

She took the last few staircases and hallways at a sprint, relying on her knowledge of the manor's layout to avoid side tables and maneuver the sharp turns in the darkness.

She rounded the last corner and found herself faced with the main staircase, the moon illuminating the foyer through the glass panes above the front doors. She took the stairs three at a time before alighting silently next to her father, hoping fervently that she had made the time limit.

Her father didn't acknowledge her but for a slight nod in her direction, and she breathed out a small sigh of relief. If that was all the attention she would receive from him, then she hadn't upset him yet. Her relief, however, was dampened when she realized that her brother still hadn't arrived.

Just as the thought crossed her mind, she heard his footsteps approaching the staircase and some moments later he was there, running down the stairs before stopping on her father's other side. _He's late_, she thought to herself, but their father didn't comment. Nervously, she glanced up at his face. His expression was almost always a calm mask, but she recognized the angle of his eyes and the set of his mouth. He was angry.

Seraphina averted her gaze to a painting of the Angel that occupied one of the walls, turning her body away from her father and her brother, before she heard the loud _crack_ of Valentine's hand striking her brother. Carefully controlling her emotions, she kept her eyes on the painting. Jonathan would be embarrassed if she looked at him now, especially if it was with pity. And Jonathan was exceptionally cruel when he felt embarrassed.

She heard footsteps behind her and spun around to face the source of them on instinct to see her father walking towards the front doors of the manor. He opened one and stepped out into the night, and Jonathan and Seraphina shared a brief glance before following him.

Outside, the air was cool and a fog had settled over the grounds, obscuring the landscape with an ominous haze under the light of the full moon.

Their father turned to face them before giving them brief instructions. "Seraphina," he began, his deep voice breaking the heavy silence of the night. "You'll run east through the woods until you reach the edge of the trees. Follow the curve of the forest's edge until you reach the creek, and then follow it back."

She gave a short nod and mentally ran through her course, as their father gave Jonathan a similar path in the opposite direction. Given the distance their father had given them, they would be running almost all night. It wouldn't be too difficult, especially given the weather that – while uncomfortably chilly standing still – would be pleasantly cool during a run.

Tonight certainly wouldn't be nearly as bad as the night their father had made them run non-stop until dawn in the middle of January. She had been twelve then, but she remembered she had done better than her brother. He hadn't taken that very well, and her thoughts drifted to the fight they had had the day after, which had involved her kicking him down the stairs and him throwing her out of a third story window. She only remembered that fight in particular because their father had made _her _repair the window, claiming that it wouldn't have been broken if she had fought better.

When their father finished giving Jonathan his directions, he sent him off into the hazy darkness with a light push and then turned to her.

"I know you're tired," he said, and she thought she saw his dark eyes soften just a bit. "But I expect you to do well."

"I will," she replied quietly, although she was, without a doubt, extremely tired. She hadn't had a full night's sleep in over a week, and she had barely eaten, either.

He urged her into a slow walk with a light touch on her back and followed behind her. She got the distinct impression that he meant to say something important, but several moments passed in silence between them as they walked towards the trees. When they reached them, her father let out a soft sigh and stopped walking.

Reaching forward, he gave her shoulders a light squeeze. "Eyes open," he whispered, and she knew that she had been dismissed.

She sprang forward into the trees, feeling her father's gaze for several long moments before she knew he would no longer be able to see her through the fog that obscured the forest.

* * *

Seraphina had been running for almost two hours when it finally happened. She heard a faint rustle on her right side and just behind her, and she spun around instantly, drawing her knife out as she turned to face him. Her father was there behind her, holding his own knife. He lunged at her and she sprang backwards, dodging the glinting slash of his knife as it arced through the empty space where she had stood a moment before.

The fight lasted for several minutes, in which she acquired several shallow lacerations, but not without landing her own blows as well.

The spar ended with her on her father's chest, forcing him to the cold ground with her knife at his throat after a daring move that had allowed him to land a vicious slash across her collarbone. But despite the blood seeping down her chest and the painful stretching of the cut when she breathed, the sacrifice had worked. She had given him an opening on purpose, and he had taken the bait as she expected he would, giving her the distraction she needed to win.

She kept the knife at her father's throat for a brief moment and then withdrew as he rose to his feet.

"Impulsive," he declared. "But effective." He allowed her a small, proud smile that made her pain and fatigue fade into nothingness for a warm moment. It had been a very long time since her father had smiled.

"Your brother didn't fare as well," he added in a darker tone, his smile already gone as if it had never existed. She felt a small stab of worry for her brother at the implication of his failure, though she noticed several discolorations of forming bruises on their father's skin that she knew weren't from her.

Reaching out, he took her knife from her hands and examined it. "This blade needs sharpening."

Worried that he would be angry with her for not taking better care of her weapons, Seraphina's muscles tensed in apprehension, but her father only tucked the knife in his belt and said, "I'll do it for you when I return home."

Surprised at the thoughtfulness of the gesture, Seraphina murmured a quiet "Thank you."

"You don't have too much farther before you turn around." Her father turned and began retreating into the darkness of the surrounding forest. "I'll see you at home."

And then he was gone, and she was alone with the racing of her heart.

* * *

It wasn't until after she had reached the edge of the forest and begun her journey back to the manor that anything remotely interesting happened.

Her father's style of training was very complex; oftentimes Jonathan and Seraphina would begin a lesson under the illusion that they were learning how to speak a new language or cure demon poisoning, and leave knowing seven morbidly creative ways to kill a man or how to turn the unlikeliest of objects into deadly weapons. And so, knowing this about her father when she had begun this night-time run, Seraphina had been tense and on-edge, all tense muscles and coiling energy in anticipation of the attack that her father was sure to initiate. He would never give Jonathan and Seraphina an exercise intended solely to build endurance; hence it was only logical to assume a trick or surprise of some sort.

But now, on the return journey, she was more bored than anything – too familiar with the landscape for it to hold her attention and too exhausted from a near two weeks of extreme exertion to think of something interesting enough to entertain her. Even the pain of her wounds – small slices in her skin that her father had inflicted with the slashing of his dagger – had faded from sharp stings to a dull, hazy throbbing.

She wouldn't put it past her father to launch another attack, just to punish her for losing focus, but somehow she knew that it wouldn't happen. Given that she had won against her father, even in this state, while her brother had failed, she knew that if her father decided to expend the time and effort on an additional ambush it would be for Jonathan's benefit rather than her own.

The curve of her route brought her to the edge of the stream that ran through the forest, and its gentle murmurs had lulled her into a dream-like trance as she ran quietly through the hazy landscape.

A sudden breeze, cool and whispering, drifted through the trees, sending branches waving and leaves rustling high above her in the dark forest. And with it came another sound – a soft, pained whimper.

She stopped running and glanced around, suddenly alert. The noise came again, from somewhere to her left, and she spun around to face it.

She couldn't see through the fog and felt herself growing increasingly anxious. She heard the rustle of leaves in the distance once more, only now the sound was not accompanied by even the slightest trace of wind.

Her heart began to race within her chest; her muscles coiling in expectation as she slowly approached the source of the sounds with silent steps. A faint rustle reached her ears once more, and she found herself drawing closer to the stream, the sound of its movement growing louder and louder as she made her way through the mist.

The thorns of a dying bush pulled at the fabric of her clothes, and she impatiently tore her way through the tangled branches. She emerged next to the stream and paused, its steady murmuring making it difficult to discern where the source of the noises was. She remained next to the bushes, straining her ears and tensing her muscles in preparation of leaping back into the heavier area of the forest she had just left at the slightest sign of danger.

A soft, keening cry drifted over the sound of the stream, and she whipped her head around to stare at a dark, immense tree from which the sound seemed to emanate. Slowly and as quietly as she could, she stepped over leaves and small branches as she made her way towards its imposing figure, stopping a few feet away and still unable to see what person or creature was making the noises through the heavy fog.

"Help."

The word was a soft, pleading whisper, but it startled her nonetheless. She jumped back a foot, her hand instinctively reaching for the knife at her thigh – she remembered with despair that it was no longer there – before the meaning of the sound registered in her battle-oriented mind.

Torn between her instinct to care for whoever it was who had so desperately asked for help and her instinct to mistrust anything in a dark forest in the middle of the night, she inched back towards the tree. This time she got close enough to see a small figure crumpled at the base of the tree among the thick, gnarled roots, and, subconsciously deciding that anyone in such a state would pose no threat to her, she walked the rest of the way with lithe, determined steps.

Seraphina crouched next to the figure and saw that it was a girl. She had dark hair that was currently obscuring her face as her head drooped towards the ground as if in exhaustion, and she wore a long-sleeved white dress darkly stained with an alarming quantity of blood.

Seraphina tentatively reached out towards her, wondering if the girl was aware of her presence or if her plea for help had been a prayer of desperation rather than a request to a stranger in the forest. The girl's skin seemed to emanate a miserable frigidity through the lacy fabric of her white dress, and she jumped slightly at Seraphina's touch, turning her face up to look at her.

As their eyes met, Seraphina's hand immediately left the girl's shoulder and she jumped back with a soft yelp.

The girl was a fairy.

Seraphina was still backing away from her, but the girl grabbed her wrist with a long-fingered hand. "Please," she whispered through cracked lips. "Please help me."

For moments Seraphina could only stare in stunned silence. It wasn't necessarily surprising to encounter faeries in the forest, especially this far away from Alicante. And it also wasn't strange to encounter a wounded fairy or other Downworlder; fights between races were common, and fairies' predisposition to cruelty made them more prone to hurt each other than the other races, who tended to band together in packs.

No, it wasn't this fairy's presence or situation that surprised her. What surprised Seraphina was the emotion that had overcome her at the sight of her – compassion, protectiveness, sadness, sympathy – swelling through her chest with crushing force. This inexplicable instinct was now driving her to remove her jacket and lay it over the girl's shoulders, to murmur comfortingly to her and carefully examine the wounds that marred her pale, icy skin.

As she looked closer, she saw that a dagger was still embedded in the girl's side. Seraphina hesitated, wondering if perhaps it would do more damage absent than still embedded in her flesh – possibly holding something together. After a careful observation, however, she decided that the likelihood of it having hit something vital was almost non-existent, given its placement.

The girl confirmed her conclusion a moment later. "If you remove the dagger, I will heal myself. But… the metal, I cannot touch it." Her voice was a weak whisper.

Gathering her resolve, Seraphina reached forward with steady hands to grasp the cold handle of the dagger. She glanced up to find the girl looking at her; her eyes were fiery orbs that blazed through the mist. Seraphina gave her a small nod, which she returned, and then pulled with enough force to remove the dagger from her side in one motion. The fairy hissed sharply but visibly relaxed once it had been removed.

Seraphina appraised the weapon that she still held in her hand. It was iron, which explained why it had weakened the fairy so severely and why she hadn't been able to remove it herself. It wasn't very large, but the edge was thin and razor sharp and it curved into a cruel hook at the tip. Judging from the design, she guessed it was a fairy-made instrument, and as she tilted it in her hands to observe it more thoroughly, a delicate engraving of a thorny vine was illuminated by the faint moonlight that penetrated the mist and confirmed her assumption.

Absently, Seraphina wondered how fairies had managed to create a weapon out of a metal so malignant to them, and why they would want to, but it was no secret that the ways of the fey were often obscure and unknown. Perhaps one of the humans living in their court had been instructed by one of the faerie's weapons masters, and perhaps the purpose of the weapon was to punish and maim faeries themselves. Seraphina wondered if the fairy in front of her had committed a crime and then been injured with the dagger as a punishment, and she suddenly felt uncertain if she had made the right decision in helping her.

Unsure of what to do with the weapon now that her curiosity had been sated, Seraphina made a small, uncertain motion to offer it to the fairy. The fairy shook her head. "I want nothing to do with it. You may keep it, if you wish, or leave it here."

Awkwardly aware that she had yet to utter a single word to the fairy whose life she had most likely just saved – and painfully aware of how vehemently her father would disapprove of this entire encounter – Seraphina made to rise to her feet and leave the fairy to tend to the rest of her wounds herself. For the second time that night, the fairy grabbed her wrist to stop her, and for the second time, Seraphina fought the urge to shudder at her touch. Thoughts of her father raced through her mind, his voice resounding through her head so clearly he could have been sitting beside her, and he was telling her, as he often had, that Downworlders were a plague to the earth, a defilement to be scorned, a threat to be eradicated.

The fairy, apparently oblivious to Seraphina's inner turmoil, did not release her hold on her. Seraphina could have broken it and left anyway; the fairy was cold and injured, and an arrogant part of Seraphina – that she didn't particularly like but that often made an appearance anyway – thought that she would be stronger than her even if she wasn't. Instead, though, she allowed the fairy to draw her closer to her and murmur in her ear. "I am in your debt, Shadowhunter. It will be repaid."

She plucked a silver flower from her dark hair and released her hold on Seraphina's wrist to press it into her palm. Seraphina waited for an explanation, but after a moment it became apparent that she wouldn't receive one. She closed her hand around the soft petals and rose to her feet once more, this time unhindered.

Fighting the instincts that told her not to turn her back on a potential enemy, Seraphina turned away from the fairy and retreated into the forest as the fairy turned her attention to her injuries.

Holding a gossamer silver flower in one hand and a fairy dagger in the other, she broke into a sprint and continued her journey through the dark forest.

* * *

Seraphina sprinted up the incline of the hill that lay a few miles away from the manor, taking heart in the knowledge that she didn't have much longer to go. As she reached the crest of the hill, she paused. _Just for a moment_, she told herself. The moon was in its descent, but still shining brightly, and she could see the dark figure of the manor in the distance. She noticed with bitterness how its ominous silhouette marred the peaceful, moonlit landscape, as though the earth itself abhorred its cruel darkness.

But she hadn't stopped to admire the view. And she hadn't stopped because she was tired – which she was, but her father had trained Jonathan and Seraphina to work through such _trivial distractions_. No; she stopped because her thoughts were racing, and her mind was frantic and chaotic. She couldn't afford to be alone with her father and Jonathan in this state – distracted, agitated, weak. They would notice. And they would tear her apart.

She had to collect her thoughts, and make sure that this memory never resurfaced to trouble her again. If her father knew that, not only had she encountered a lone Downworlder and allowed it to live, but she had _helped_ one when it was dying already…

Seraphina couldn't even imagine his fury.

So she took a deep, shaking breath, focusing intently, and placed the memory in a deep, distant area of mind. A place where she sent all of her secrets to live in dark, chaotic harmony. And then, with the memory buried safely where no one would ever know about it, she gathered her resolve and bounded down the hill, more than ready to reach the manor and end what had swiftly become a disaster waiting to happen. The sooner this night was over, the less chance there was that her father would ever know about this.

When Seraphina reached the manor, she was shivering after so long in the cool night without the protection of her jacket. She opened one of the front doors and entered the foyer. It was no longer bathed in moonlight, with the moon too far in its descent to pool through the windows above the door. Instead, it was shrouded in darkness, and the manor was completely silent.

As she stepped cautiously across the threshold and into the heavy air of the manor, a sense of anxiety pooled in her chest and twisted into a knot as she made her way further into the dark, weighty silence. A part of her could already sense how miserable this night would be; since she stopped to help the fairy girl, she was far later than her father had expected her to be. Punishment was inevitable, but the least she could hope for was that her father would assume her failure was a result of inadequacy alone, and not betrayal.

She heard a soft murmur from down the east hallway and made her way in that direction, steeling her resolve as she went. She reached the door of her father's study, and a glance inside confirmed her expectations – he was there with Jonathan, the two of them quietly discussing something. Her father couldn't see her from where she stood obscured in shadows near the doorway, but Jonathan must have sensed her presence, for he stopped whatever he was saying to turn around. For a moment, the siblings' eyes met and an understanding passed between them – his sympathy, her worry, his apology, and hers too – but they were cut short when their father saw evidence of the exchange in the eyes of his son and turned to face the doorway, knowing that his daughter had arrived.

With a small sigh, Seraphina forced herself to step into the light, keeping her eyes downcast to avoid her father's stormy gaze.

"We've been waiting for you, Seraphina." The sound of her father's voice alone was enough to make her shiver, and even then she knew that much worse awaited her.

"You were ahead of schedule when I found you." He rose from his chair, with a slow, easy grace that belied the murderous power beneath. "I expected you to be home far before Jonathan, whose incompetency in combat caused him injury that no doubt lessened his already inadequate speed."

Seraphina saw her brother lower his head as their father walked towards her with all the confidence and malice of a predator that knew its prey was cornered and helpless.

Her father continued speaking in a low, quiet voice that inspired more terror within her than shouting ever could. "So imagine my surprise when, even after I sparred with your brother _again_ while you were allowed to return unhindered as a reward for your performance, your brother returned long before you."

He had moved to stand in front of her, and she felt pathetically small and weak as his tall, broad-shouldered form loomed over her petite slenderness.

"Look at me, Seraphina." His voice was commanding, brutal, harsh.

Slowly, she raised her eyes to meet his, her gaze sliding across the black-clothed strength of his muscular torso before hesitantly, with a sinking feeling in her chest, meeting the black eyes that were boring into her unforgivingly. She saw no mercy, no tenderness or compassion, not the slightest emotion in the inky depths of his eyes, and she wondered distantly if the saying that eyes were the windows to the soul had any truth to it. If it did, her father's soul was as barren as a frozen desert.

A feeling of complete helplessness and dread crashed over her, and she could feel every ounce of strength and will leaving her body, passing through her skin like mist and leaving a frigid desperation behind. Her eyes unconsciously darted to her brother's, seeking comfort, strength, perhaps even compassion, but instead found a simplistic expression of understanding and a weary resignation.

Seraphina knew that her father was angry – furious, even – but he didn't seem suspicious of the reasons that had made her late in the first place. Suddenly, she remembered that she still had the fairy dagger and the flower – both of which she had tucked inside her sheath – and instantly cursed her foolishness and hoped fervently that her father wouldn't notice either of the objects. Surreptitiously, she reached down to shift her shirt to conceal the handle of the dagger, only to realize that her sheath was empty. Confused, she wondered if she had lost them on the way back.

Her father's hand shot out with stunning speed and grabbed her jaw in a bone crushing grip, forcing her gaze back to him and jarring her out of her thoughts. He maintained his painful grip and spoke with deceptive, eerie calmness, "I said, _look at me._"

Every muscle in Seraphina's body screamed at her to struggle out of his grip that kept her helpless and in pain, but she resisted her instincts by sheer force of will, knowing from years of experience how she needed to behave under her father's punishment.

"I suppose this is my fault." Her father used his grip on her to pull her face closer to his, and she soon had to stand on the tips of her toes to make the pain bearable. "I've been too easy on you lately. You've grown over-confident, out of practice." Emotion showed in his eyes for the first time – disgust, fury, malice. "Weak," he spat.

The first blow – a stinging slap that made her head spin and left a bruise blooming on her cheek – was the only one that she would later be able to remember as a separate entity; the rest blurred together into a cacophonous sensation of pain. Her father was ruthless, furious, and relentless in his assault, and soon her entire body ached and throbbed, and each heartbeat sent a new wave of pain pulsing through her being. As painful as it was, she felt a different kind of pain that was even worse – a chilling frigidity that made her heart splinter and constrict inside her chest – that came from the weight of her father's anger and disappointment.

Eventually, the blows stopped. Seraphina felt the cool hardwood floor pressing against her cheek but couldn't remember when she had fallen. Distantly, she heard her father order Jonathan to take her back to her room, and through eyes blurred by unshed tears she saw the darkness of her brother's form approach her. Her bruised skin ached in protest as his arms wrapped around her, but it didn't bother her, because his touch was soft and much gentler than usual, and displays of such care from her brother were rare enough that she protected each one in her memory like a priceless artifact.

She realized that it was the second time she had needed to be carried into her room in as many nights. It made her cross and ashamed, but she waited until they were on the second floor before she extricated herself from her brother's grasp, needing the time to compose herself and bring the pain to a manageable heel. He protested irritably when she did so, but she pushed him away and ascended the rest of her staircase alone.

Upon reaching her bedroom, she slammed the door behind her, suddenly furious at how helpless and weak she had been under her father's punishment, and how foolish she had been by helping to stop the fairy in the first place. Another part of her, smaller and quieter and easier to ignore, was also upset that her brother had stood there and watched. She _always _helped him when it was him being hurt, always tried to persuade or distract their father away from her brother, but Jonathan had done nothing for her.

Storming over to her closet, she removed her now dirty, torn clothes, wincing when the laceration across her collarbone stretched uncomfortably with the movement. Although it was a worse wound, it hurt her less somehow; she had received it what seemed like a lifetime ago, when her father had been pleased with her performance, right before he had smiled. She could erase that wound with an iratze and it would disappear forever. The others, though, could never be completely forgotten. They were more than just physical pains; they were tiny scars across her heart, insidious whispers of self-deprecation and fear that would haunt her mind forever.

When she reached down to remove the sheath from her thigh, she was startled by the feeling of cool metal against her hand. Looking down, she saw that it was the fairy dagger; now back in the sheath where she had placed it when she left the fairy. Confused, she pulled it out, certain that it hadn't been there when she had checked in her father's study. The flower was there too; miraculously uncrushed despite the journey it had endured. Resolving to test the mysterious properties of the dagger the next day, Seraphina placed both the dagger and the flower in a wooden box adorned with curling carvings that had belonged to her grandmother – her namesake – and placed it in the back of her closet.

As she moved to go to bed, she was unable to avoid her reflection. A collection of bruises, already abhorrently dark against her pale skin, were scattered across nearly every inch of visible skin. The skin of her right cheekbone had split under the force of one of her father's blows, and a cut above her eyebrow sent blood dripping gruesomely past her eye. Dried blood covered her lips, and she wasn't sure if her father had done it or if she had bitten through the skin in her efforts not to cry out.

An unbidden tear slid down her cheek, and she turned away from the mirror as a feeling of disgust roiled in her stomach. With stiff muscles and weary bones, she crawled gingerly under the covers of her bed and closed her eyes. A feeling of insurmountable sadness and melancholy consumed her heart, and she could do nothing to stop the soft, broken sobs that escaped her lips. Seraphina was gripped by the overwhelming feeling of being completely, utterly lost – with no idea of whom she was or where she belonged.

Stronger even than her sadness, however, was anger. An anger that had taken root in her spirit long ago. Anger towards her father, towards her brother, and even some anger for the mother who had abandoned her, abandoned all of them. And as she lay in bed, hurt and alone, Seraphina latched onto her anger like a leech, using it as a focus, a center point, to distract her from her misery and helplessness. Her anger was malignant, insidious, and wicked, but it was also secure – an anchor for her sanity, a burning center amidst a sea of darkness.

As the fire of her anger burned away the chilling emptiness of her sadness, Seraphina was finally able to drift into sleep. Dark, disordered thoughts crept from the shadowy depths of her mind, spectral tendrils that whispered of pain and secrets and memories forgotten. Her sleep was plagued by nightmares, as it always was; she spent the night in a demented, macabre world formed from a combination of dreams and reality. Tonight there was a new addition to this world of nightmares and memories – an ethereal fairy girl, haunting and bloody and wickedly lovely, surrounded by demons and monsters, calling for help from within a dark forest.

* * *

**Thank you for reading! Again, I'd love to hear your thoughts, friendly or not-so-friendly.**


	4. Chapter 4

**Disclaimer: I own nothing, and Cassandra Clare owns everything. Everything in the world. **

**This chapter took a while, and it isn't as long as the last one, so I apologize. I just started my senior year, and my teachers are already ruining my life. Fortunately, today was a dark, rainy day - perfect for writing. I didn't get the chance to proof-read this because I have to go to dinner with my family, and I didn't want to keep you guys waiting any longer, so please excuse any errors you encounter.**

* * *

_"Who has not asked himself at some time or other: am I a monster or is this what it means to be a person?" – Clarice Lispector_

* * *

Jonathan Morgenstern was bored. He lay on the floor of his bedroom, gazing at a plain, white ceiling, and wished that his sister was there. If he wanted to spend time with her, though, he would have to go and get her himself, and she had the tendency to hide after their father hurt her – not out of fear, but out of embarrassment. A red haze fell over his eyes as he remembered the night before – his sister on the floor, their father above her, her blood, their father's fury. There was a time when he relished in his sister's pain at the hands of their father, but not anymore. Now it made him angry.

Jonathan remembered being a child and hating his sister the way he hated everybody else. He remembered resenting the treatment she received from their father, the way their father was gentler, more careful with her than he was with Jonathan. He remembered sneaking into her room when he was 3 to smother her with a pillow, the same way he had tried to get rid of the other Jonathan, and he also remembered that the punishment for trying to kill his sister had been far harsher than the punishment he had received for the other boy. He remembered, once she was older, thinking of more creative ways to harm her – he would lure her away from their father's side and trick her into following him into the darkness he had grown so familiar with, entrap her with whispered promises of excitement and magic before hiding her away with him and satisfying his thirst for her pain.

But then things changed. Jonathan remembered the way his sister had grown from a pudgy infant into a slim, enchanting toddler. He remembered seeing his father change as his daughter grew to look more and more like the wife who had betrayed him and left him alone with their children. Jonathan remembered the way their father's gentleness had become a double-edged sword as his homeless feelings of fury and heartbreak found a home in his daughter. Jonathan remembered the way their father would dote on Seraphina, lovingly and devotedly, only to lash out with cruelty and resentment like a wounded animal when she would unknowingly remind him of their mother – with a slow, mysterious smile; with a flick of crimson hair; with a flash of cunning in deep green eyes.

Jonathan saw his sister differently then – once she, too, had been subjected to their father's morbid experiments and harsh blows, once she had suffered the way he had. He almost thought her suffering had been worse than his, for she had known care and love and affection, only to have it ripped away and replaced with misguided resentment and ceaseless abuse. Better to have been ignored all along, the way Jonathan had, than to be subjected to the emotional turmoil that came with Seraphina's constant uncertainty at the hands of their father's tumultuous behavior. Needless to say, Seraphina had grown to become a very unstable child, with a tendency towards recklessness and rebellion and a melancholic air that made her withdrawn and intriguing.

Jonathan remembered how things had changed then, how he had come to see his sister not as his victim, but instead as a companion. A heart that had grown as mangled as his, a mind that had been made chaotic and restless at the hands of their father the same way Jonathan's had. Everything had changed then. Seraphina, at that age still governed by her predispositions to empathy and a trusting nature, had yet to have learned her lesson when it came to her brother. She would still follow him when he grasped her hand in a façade of tenderness and listen to his fantastical tales with childlike rapture, and Jonathan began using his power over her in a different way. He would still entice her away when their father was otherwise occupied, but he made a conscious effort to be kinder to her – no longer did he resort to his previous cruelties, instead lapsing only into the mild punishments of pinches or hair pulling when he would feel her grow disobedient and restless under his control. Soon, there was true sincerity rather than devilish trickery in his kind gestures towards her – stroking her hair when their father's blows left her weak and miserable, holding her in his arms when a hectic mind and an overactive imagination left her unable to sleep.

Jonathan's parents believed him incapable of human emotion, but he had found something very close to love in his relationship with his sister. She was the first person who had ever embraced him, the first who had ever pushed the silver strands of his hair away from his face when they fell into his eyes, the first who had held his hand and told him stories and listened to him. Even when he had hated her, even when he had seen her only as a subject for his sadistic tortures, a part of his sister had remained unable to hate him. That same part of her was the part that would follow him when he asked despite previous cruelties, as though hopeful he had changed and retained a capacity for kindness. Jonathan soon developed an insatiable desire for the tender gestures of his sister and found himself less irritable and miserable when she was near.

Valentine, not sensing the connection that had been fostered between his children until it was too late, felt threatened by the relationship between the siblings. Observing the way Jonathan could capture Seraphina's mind and body with the falsest of promises and the subtlest of gestures, and the way Seraphina could soften the cruelty in Jonathan's eyes and subdue his violent nature with the brush of her hand, their father felt the insistent urge to keep their strange bond from advancing any further.

Given that Jonathan had the blood of a demon and Seraphina that of an angel, Valentine had falsely assumed that the opposing natures of their blood alone would be enough to keep them from becoming close and allow him to maintain individual control over each of them. What he did not expect was that it would also attract them to each other; Jonathan's demonic blood instilled within him a predatory instinct that he would unleash upon his sister at an early age and that would later develop into something more – a relentless desire for control over her. Seraphina's angelic blood, on the other hand, made her kindhearted and pure – tendencies which at an early age manifested themselves in an innocent impressionability that provided Jonathan with the perfect window of opportunity in which to cement his influence over her.

Their father's proposed solution to a problem that he would later realize was too intricate to solve was the adoption of a different approach to their training, one that pitted them against each other in every exercise. He took to rewarding the child who excelled in any particular application and mercilessly punishing the other, until eventually he had cleverly and subtly manipulated his children into a constant battle for his attention and approval.

Seraphina, having already experienced both her father's kindness and her brother's cruelty, was more susceptible to the manipulations of their father; she both thirsted for the attention and affection she had lost from her father with age and feared the boy her brother had once been, the boy who had viciously abused her in morbidly creative ways. Jonathan, though more set in his ways than his sister had been when their father had begun his efforts, was not entirely immune to their father's influence either. The new situation suited his desires rather nicely, he thought; he now had a fighting chance at winning the attention he had never received from his father, and he was no longer punished for hurting his sister.

Still, Jonathan maintained the deep affection he had acquired for his sister when they were young, and throughout the years this affection had developed into a twisted sense of possession. Seraphina, meanwhile, was unable to abandon her brother despite their father's wishes, vulnerable as she was to the devotion and compassion that her brother had cleverly kindled in her heart when she was young. So the siblings maintained their closeness, and their father's designs served only to make their relationship both a bit more abusive and a bit more desperate, for they were first taught to harm each other and then subjected to a pain and misery that only the other could understand and diminish.

And so it was that Jonathan Morgenstern found himself irritable and miserable after so many days away from his sister as he lay on the floor of his bedroom. An unbidden memory came to him once more – the sound of her agonized screams echoing through the manor when their father had taken her underground for experiments on her blood – and a burning rage pulsed in his chest. It wasn't her pain that bothered him, but the fact that it had been someone else making her scream with their touch. Seraphina was _his. _And soon, he would have to do something about their father trying to take her away from him.

The burning sensation in his chest made his muscles ache for action with increasing intensity until he could no longer lie still, so he rose to his feet and, thoughts of his sister still fresh in his mind, set off to find her. She wouldn't want to see him, but he was tired of being alone and felt he had given her enough time by herself. He went to her bedroom first, because that was where she spent all of her free time, but she wasn't there. She was hiding, then. A wicked glee soon grew in Jonathan's mind. He very much enjoyed hunting his sister.

Excited now, he decided to search the manor from bottom to top. He searched downstairs first, knowing that his sister was very fond of the library, but found every room on the floor cold and silent and empty. He searched the second floor next, paying special attention to the music room where Seraphina often enjoyed spending time, but received the same results. As he ascended the staircase, he skipped the third floor – since that was where his bedroom was, he knew that Seraphina wouldn't be there – and resumed his search on the fourth.

Jonathan's heart was beating faster in exhilaration and eagerness, knowing that his sister, his prey, was almost in his grasp. Aside from Seraphina's bedroom, which was on the far west side, the fourth floor was home only to abandoned, unused rooms, and it was almost always one of these rooms that Seraphina chose to hide in when she wasn't in her own. Keeping his footsteps perfectly silent, Jonathan was wondering which room to start in when he heard it – the soft scratch of a pencil on paper. He smiled cruelly and followed the sound, determining its source to be somewhere in the third room on the left.

He paused outside the door, wanting to be sure before he entered that he had the right room. He leaned closer to the dark wood and heard her pencil stroke a line in her sketchbook once more, and his pulse jumped with expectation. He reached out a pale, slim fingered hand and opened the heavy door to reveal a large, dim room, full of old furniture covered in white sheets. Jonathan saw his sister sitting on the floor, leaning against a chair with her sketchbook in her lap. _I won, _Jonathan thought with an immature sense of accomplishment.

"I'm bored," Jonathan announced to his sister.

"I'm not in the mood," she replied, her voice soft and slightly hoarse.

Jonathan walked over to stand above her, and when she looked up to meet his gaze he felt a flash of anger at the bruises on her face. "Come to the library with me." He was able to keep his voice calm, despite a seething anger for their father that surged beneath his skin.

"No," she answered before she returned her attention to the drawing she was working on.

"_Now."_

"No."

Jonathan knew his sister must have sensed his anger, for she closed her sketchbook and rose to her feet, attempting to step around him and into another room where she could be alone. He reached out and grabbed her arm, but she wiggled out of his grasp and continued her retreat. Irritated, Jonathan grabbed a fistful of her hair and brought her back to him. He brought his other hand to her neck and ran it gently across a path of bruises he had left there the week before in a subtle, menacing threat.

His sister's pretty eyes flashed with anger and defiance, and his own anger gave way to an excitement that burned in his stomach. She tore away from him with a vicious slap that jerked his head to the side before agilely leaping around him and into the hallway. Jonathan gave an anticipatory growl and launched after her, gleeful that this little game was turning out far more exciting than he had expected.

He could only faintly hear his sister's lithe footsteps as she bounded down the stairs, and he knew that the chase, though exciting, would be difficult for him. Seraphina's slim, petite build was ideal for tasks that required agility and speed, and she was also cleverer than Jonathan. Jonathan's one advantage, he supposed, was that he knew his sister very well. Using that knowledge of her, he considered his options as he chased after her. Their father's office was in the east wing of the manor, and, given his sister's behavior, he knew that she would be trying to avoid him. So, halting in his pursuit, he backtracked from the main staircase she had taken downstairs and instead ran down the fourth floor hallway to reach the west staircase.

As he made his way downstairs, he heard the soft _thump _of his sister's foot on a hardwood floor and knew that she must be on the second floor. No longer as preoccupied with stealth now that he knew he had her, he increased his speed, not caring that she would be able to hear his footsteps on the staircase. He reached the second floor just in time to see the last, long tendrils of her red hair disappear behind a corner, and he bounded after her with growing eagerness.

He caught up with her near the large spiral staircase that dominated the core of the manor and leapt for her with a snarl, catching her around her narrow waist and pushing her to the ground beneath him. She kicked at him and used her nails to rake a bloody trail down the side of his face. He laughed maniacally, and they scuffled for several minutes before Jonathan finally held his sister in an unrelenting grip and lifted her into his arms.

He was nearly oblivious to the struggles of her significantly smaller frame as he carried her through the manor and into his bedroom. He dropped her unceremoniously on the floor before locking his bedroom door behind him, determined to keep Seraphina with him for as long as he could. He was in a far better mood now that his sister was with him, and their scuffle had allowed him to burn off some of the agitated energy that had plagued him all morning.

Seraphina was sitting next to his bed, no longer irate but instead resigned to the fact that Jonathan wouldn't be letting her leave any time soon. Jonathan went to sit beside her as she opened her sketchbook and resumed the drawing she had been working on before his interruption. He pulled her closer to him with an arm around her waist but for the most part let her be, content to watch her work for the time being. He watched the graceful motions of her thin fingers, the intensity of her dark green eyes as she focused on her work, the shadows that her long eyelashes cast against the high angles of her cheekbones. While Jonathan wasn't prone to concern himself with such things, he knew with certainty in that moment that his sister was beautiful, and a dark pride found its way through the chaotic muddle of emotions in his chest. Seraphina was beautiful, and Seraphina was _his._

Eventually, though, Jonathan grew impatient and dissatisfied with inactivity, as he always did. He reached for his sister's sketchbook and quickly slipped it from her grip before she realized what he was doing, and by the time she reacted he had gotten to his feet and was holding it over his head, far out of her reach. He smirked at the anger in her delicate features as she leapt to her feet, finding it more endearing than frightening. Sensing his dismissal, Seraphina grew even more incensed and jumped at him, wrapping an arm around his neck and using the other to reach for her sketchbook.

It would have been easy for the exchange to cause another fight to erupt between the siblings, but Jonathan was distracted by the bruises on his sister that he hadn't been able to see when she had been looking away from him. He dropped his sister's sketchbook on his bed and then wrapped his arms around her torso before lowering them both onto the bed, where he laid her underneath him and brought a hand to the dark bruises on her face. He gazed at them for a long moment, angry and resentful, before reaching for his stele.

Sensing his intent, Seraphina stilled her brother's hand with her own. "You know we're not supposed to…"

She didn't finish her sentence, but Jonathan knew what she was referring to. Their father had forbidden them from healing wounds intended for punishment, believing they should remain until they healed naturally as a reminder of the short falling or rule infraction that had warranted them.

"Since when do you follow that rule?" Jonathan asked slyly.

Seraphina had, in fact, broken that rule many times, but not for herself. Since she had perfected her iratze, Seraphina had often healed the wounds that their father inflicted on Jonathan. Jonathan remembered one night when he had been 10 and Seraphina 8, and their father, frustrated with Jonathan's lack of proficiency in runes, had beaten Jonathan with a glass-embedded whip. Seraphina had pleaded with their father to stop and later took to physically attempting to impede his path, but their father had merely turned on her with the instrument and returned to Jonathan once she was debilitated.

Later that night, Seraphina had snuck into Jonathan's room and healed the lacerations in his back, and she had wept silent, silver tears and stroked his hair until he fell asleep. Jonathan hadn't realized until later that she hadn't healed her own wounds, only his, and while he couldn't comprehend the selflessness of her gesture, it had made him feel accomplished and happy – accomplished because in that silent, sad moment he could _feel _his power over her, the way he moved her into sadness and compassion with his pain, and happy because that moment, he thought, was what love felt like.

In the current moment, as Jonathan gazed at the contusions that marred his sister's pretty face, he realized that he had yet to do the same for her. He had comforted her, true – with his touch or his voice or a small gesture, but risking punishment to eliminate her pain had never occurred to him. Seeing his sister in pain had never distressed him as it did Seraphina when the roles were reversed. But now, as they grew older, he had begun to feel a shift. Where before he had seen their father's punishment of Seraphina as a tool – her pain and sadness gave Jonathan the opportunity to draw her closer to him, make her depend on him and love him as he slowly became her only source of tenderness or care – now it instilled within him a dark anger and a possessive greed.

He didn't like that their father had hurt her. Now that Jonathan was confident in his relationship with his sister, he didn't need their father's violence to drive her closer to him. Now it represented only their father's power over her – his power to subdue her into submission and obedience with pain and anger. With the clarity of thought that Jonathan could only accomplish with the calming influence of his sister's presence, Jonathan realized that their father's abuse had surpassed the realm of usefulness and had now become detrimental. In Jonathan's mind, he saw it as a parabola – it had driven Seraphina closer and closer to him throughout her childhood as her desire for companionship and love had made Jonathan her only option, but the effect had peaked sometime earlier and was now heading in the opposite direction, the constant pain and misery making Seraphina increasingly closed off and introverted – and in turn causing her to withdraw from Jonathan in quiet melancholy as she found the only comfort available from somewhere within the deepest confines of her dark mind.

Driven by the resolve that his realization had instilled within him, Jonathan freed his hand from his sister's grasp – gently – and ignored her murmured protests as he drew a light, angled iratze on her bruised skin. He felt a calming sense of satisfaction as the evidence of their father's violence faded from her skin, and a darker tone of pleasure as he realized the effect that the gesture would have on his sister – it was compassionate, empathetic, and very unlike him, and it would make his sister happy. He hoped that her happiness would help to recover some of the distance that had grown between them, and as he saw her eyes alight with a deep, surprised contentment, he knew that it had.

He stroked the now smooth, alabaster skin of her cheek and smiled at her, and she returned his smile with more warmth and love than he had been able to manage. But then she pushed him off of her and sat up – not angry, but obviously through with the physical affection – and darkness once again overwhelmed the warmth in Jonathan's chest. When they were children, Seraphina had been the first to initiate physical affection, and Jonathan was the one made uncomfortable by it. Now, the roles were reversed, and Jonathan, no matter how hard he tried, was unable to figure out why it suddenly made her uncomfortable. Seraphina had made him more knowledgeable about normal – _human – _emotions than he would have been otherwise, but he frequently discovered that there were several – many, if he was being honest – that were still out of his realm of understanding. His sister's growing aloofness, for example. Why was he no longer allowed to hold her? Isn't that what people did, when they belonged to each other?

Despite her rejection of his physical affection, Seraphina was much warmer to her brother after his gesture, and soon they were relaxed and content with each other in a way they had been unable to manage for the past few weeks. She retrieved her sketchbook and went to sit beside Jonathan, trying to teach him how to draw – a mission she had begun when she first began the habit of drawing her thoughts and had stoically stuck with despite Jonathan's obvious lack of natural talent. Today she had him try to draw a Nickar – a sea demon – since they had studied them only recently. The face vaguely resembled the basic features, but the wings were awful and far too small, and soon they were laughing and neither was taking it seriously. When they were finished, hours later, they found themselves looking at a ridiculous depiction of a cat on a surfboard, surrounded by the siblings' doodles and scribbles.

Their comfort and happiness were brought to an abrupt end, however, when they simultaneously became aware of heavy footsteps approaching them. Dread filled Jonathan's heart as he realized their father was coming to look for them, no doubt to put them through some form of training or exercise. He knew that once Seraphina found herself in their father's presence once more, Jonathan would lose her again into her aloofness and anger and melancholy, and her warmth and love and his brief peace of mind would fade into nothingness under the harsh control of their father's influence.

Jonathan wasn't ready to be alone again, and a sudden desperation clawed its way through his chaotic emotions. He looked to his sister and saw a deep, resigned sadness, an encompassing but accepting misery, and knew that he had to act quickly if he wanted to keep her with him, if only for a while longer. He grasped her hand in his, twining their fingers together and catching her eye.

"We don't want to see him," he whispered, and she shook her head in agreement.

"We want to be alone together," Jonathan continued softly, and he tightened his grip on Seraphina's small hand, "Without him."

Seraphina paused, and Jonathan pressed onward. "Come on," he said quietly as he rose to his feet. When Seraphina remained sitting, he pulled her to her feet with his grip on her hand and a hand on her waist.

They had sensed their father's footsteps when he had still been downstairs, just leaving his office, but now he was closer. He was somewhere near the second floor, and Jonathan knew that their father would find them soon and take Seraphina away from him. His desperation grew and he pulled Seraphina to his chest, willing her to understand his need for her.

"Come with me," he whispered against her ear. "Please."

Seraphina didn't answer, but she squeezed his hand and he knew she understood. He led her over to his window and opened it as quietly as he could before stepping onto the ledge outside, drawing her along behind him. They had done this before, but not in a very long time. Not since this had been a regular occurrence – Jonathan luring Seraphina away from their father so that he could have her to himself.

Jonathan released his sister's hand and nudged her ahead of him, allowing her to be the first one to leap from the ledge and onto the thick branch of a tree that stood a manageable distance from Jonathan's bedroom window. She managed the jump with ease and grace, and Jonathan allowed himself a brief flash of pride at his sister's superior talent. Jonathan followed behind her as soon as he knew she was steady on her perch, and then together they climbed swiftly down the tree to alight on the plush, green grass below.

Reaching for his sister and grasping her hand once more, he broke into a sprint and led them into the forest. They had reached the trees by the time they heard their father's angry shout, and Seraphina broke into soft, melodious laughter. Jonathan laughed with her as they sprinted through the trees, swiftly leaving the manor far behind them, far enough that they could no longer see it.

Once they felt safe enough to slow down, Seraphina shook her hand free of his, and Jonathan felt another flash of annoyance, but he decided against forcing her. At least she was his now; at least he knew she would still follow him into darkness, like she had when she was a child. They walked in silence, Seraphina because she was a quiet person and Jonathan because he was miffed, but they soon reached their destination – a small, wooden shed seemingly in the middle of the forest.

Jonathan had found the shed when he was very young, back when nobody – not even Seraphina, yet – ever paid him any attention and he spent most of his free time in the woods by himself, because everything in the forest was as wild as he was. When he had begun tormenting his sister, this was often where he brought her; their father didn't know the shed was there, and he never found them. When Jonathan and Seraphina had grown closer, the purpose of the shed had changed, and they had used it to escape their father when he was particularly violent or cruel. They hadn't been there in a long while, but the small shed looked the same as it always had – dark and small, but fairly clean. A few of Seraphina's drawings still hung from the walls, and different runes were carved into the wall from times when inspiration had struck Seraphina while in the confines of the dark wood.

The siblings entered, calm and comforted by the familiar environment that had been their sanctuary as children. Seraphina laughed as she looked through a sketchbook that she must have used at a very young age – her people looked like potatoes and her demons looked like dark scribbles – and Jonathan found some blankets that they had stowed there when their visits had been more frequent. He laid them out on the floor, and Seraphina soon sat next to him, the familiar environment with its memories of innocence making her more comfortable and negating the need for Jonathan to force her closeness.

When the moon was high in the clear night sky, shining through the cracks in the wood walls, the siblings laid down facing each other, and Seraphina whispered a fairy tale that she had read to Jonathan when they were very small, and Jonathan smiled because his sister was acting the way she used to and it made him more self-assured and glad than he could remember being in a very long time.

Eventually their talking stopped for a long while as drowsiness and fatigue overwhelmed them, but Jonathan interrupted the silence with a question that he had wanted to ask his sister for a very long time. "Do you hate him?"

He knew that Seraphina would know he meant their father, and he knew that she probably wouldn't have a definitive answer. Sure enough, she answered, "I… don't know." Sometimes Jonathan didn't know if his sister was even capable of hate, if such a dark, malignant emotion could even exist in her light.

"Do you?" she asked him.

"I hate everyone," he reminded her softly, with a slight mocking edge. "Except you," he added, more serious with those words than he had been with the previous ones.

His sister smiled and reached a hand up to his face, brushing the hair away from his forehead, just like she used to. "You don't give yourself enough credit," she murmured. "You don't hate everyone. You're just… angry."

Jonathan didn't believe her, but he was comforted by her faith in him nonetheless. "It's alright," she continued softly. "I'm angry too."

Jonathan looked into his sister's eyes and knew she spoke the truth from the misery that called from within the depths of her dark emerald eyes. In her eyes, he saw the same helpless, desperate, directionless rage that he felt in his own heart, and he knew that as distant as his sister grew from him, no one would ever understand him like he did. She would always return to him, if for that reason alone.

They gazed into each other's eyes for a long, uninterrupted moment of shared grief. Eventually, Seraphina allowed her own tired eyes to close, and she slipped away from Jonathan and into her dreams. Jonathan remained awake, his mind restless and his emotions louder than he was used to. She turned away from him in her sleep, but he wrapped an arm around her waist and brought her back to his chest, the delicate breadth of her shoulders in the circle of his embrace and her soft hair against his neck.

It was true that Jonathan hated everyone, but if he had learned anything from his objective observations of love, then he loved his sister. And even if he wasn't completely certain of his capability for love, he knew, at least, that he and his sister belonged to each other. This thought was comforting enough to put his questionings of love to rest, and he gazed at his sister's face, illuminated by the silver light of the moon, for a long while.

Her long, thick eyelashes; her high cheekbones; her small, pointed chin; her pale pink lips; her hair, more red than orange. They were the same features she had always had, but somewhere in her growth, without Jonathan noticing, they had bloomed from childlike prettiness into a deeper sense of beauty. Jonathan calmed even more as he studied his sister's features, because his sister loved him and she was here with him, still and warm and breathing softly. Jonathan was finally able to fall asleep, comforted by a single, primitive thought that ran like a mantra through his troubled mind.

Seraphina was beautiful, and Seraphina was his.

* * *

**Jonathan's a creep, but at least he loves his sister.**

**I've gotten some incredibly lovely reviews, and I appreciate them more than I can tell you, but please don't be shy if there's something you didn't like or didn't understand. I'm looking for any feedback you'd like to give me.**

**Thank you for reading!**


	5. Chapter 5

**This chapter took a lot longer than I hoped it would, but in all fairness it is pretty long. Hopefully updates won't always take this long, but if they do I sincerely apologize. Sometimes there just isn't much I can do to make things get done faster.**

**Somewhere in the middle of the last chapter's reviews, I lost track of which ones I had responded to and which ones I hadn't, so if you left a review and I didn't answer you I'm really sorry. Like I say all of the time, I really really appreciate hearing your thoughts and opinions on my writing, and I've been very fortunate in that I've received a lot of incredibly lovely reviews.**

**I hope you enjoy this chapter, even though it took too long. **

* * *

_"Beware the dark pool at the bottom of our hearts. In its icy, black depths dwell strange and twisted creatures it is best not to disturb."_

* * *

Seraphina woke in her brother's arms, her back pressed against his chest. She was stiff and groggy, and it took her a moment to remember where she was and why she was there. She probably could have done with a bit more rest, but the sun shone bright and invasive through a window in the shed, and there was no hope that she could fall back asleep.

She tried to sit up, but her brother's grip on her was tight, even in sleep, and if that weren't enough she found their legs were hopelessly entangled. With a sigh she settled back down and waited for her brother to awaken, tracing patterns against the rough, wooden floor, feeling her brother's soft breath against her hair. Left alone in silence, Seraphina felt herself withdrawing more and more into her thoughts, their quiet whisperings growing louder and louder as she retreated into their depths, embracing her mind and drawing strength from her to thrive and consume. She saw memories and dreams that she hadn't given thought to in a very long time unfold before her eyelids, reforming themselves from mist and smoke into spectral figures with haunting murmurs.

She had no idea how long she lay there in her brother's arms, enraptured and ensnared by her thoughts, forced to watch painful, agonizing memories recreate themselves in the small, silent shed. Eventually, her brother stirred, and she was momentarily made aware of the present, of reality – the hard floor pressing against her bones, the rough wood against her skin, the bright sunlight in her eyes – before she was dragged back into the depths of her mind.

Her brother moved again, and she was jarred from her thoughts again, but the reprieve was much shorter this time.

She was distantly aware of Jonathan's face above her, concerned and floodlit by sunlight, but a memory soon consumed her attention once more – it latched onto her brother's face and created itself as on overlay across her reality, and soon her brother was replaced by a memory of him – his anxious face overlapped by a sadistic smile, the sunlight behind him fading away as if dimmed by a dark filter. Seraphina was six, and Jonathan was eight, and they were in the shed because Jonathan had told Seraphina a ridiculous lie that had made sense to her at the time, a lie that he had used to draw her away from their father and into the forest.

Real-Jonathan touched her arm and shook her gently.

Young-Jonathan reached out and enclosed her forearm in an inescapable grip, dragging her towards him and laughing softly.

"Phina? Phina what's wrong?" Real-Jonathan asked anxiously.

"Do you love me, Seraphina?" Young-Jonathan asked menacingly. She didn't answer him. He tightened his fingers around her arm with bruising force, and she whimpered softly.

"Yes," she responded reluctantly, fearfully, confusedly.

Real-Jonathan brushed the hair out of her face, but she couldn't feel his touch anymore. All she felt was a firm hand enclosing her arm, a malicious gaze sliding across her skin, a feeling of danger and darkness that pervaded the air.

"Then show me," Young-Jonathan whispered. He bent down, dragging her with him, to pick up a rusted coil of stiff wire that lay abandoned and neglected on the floor of the shed. He handed it to her, placing it in the hand of the arm that he wasn't holding. She gazed at it in confusion; she didn't know what he wanted.

He leaned forward and whispered to her, telling her how people were supposed to show their love to each other. She grew more afraid, but she _did _love him (didn't she?) and she wanted to show him _(_right?). She had never heard of people doing what he had told her to do. But then again, no one had ever told her they loved her, let alone showed it to her. He must be right – he was older. And her big brother wouldn't lie to her. And she _did _love him.

"Phina, please answer me," Real-Jonathan whispered as he stroked her hair.

"Come on," Young-Jonathan urged impatiently, jerking her closer to him. "Do it."

She tightened her grip on the wire and brought it to the skin of her right arm, the one Jonathan still held in his grasp. He gave an anticipatory growl and pulled on her arm until it was straight. He pushed up her sleeve to reveal the pale, delicate skin underneath, and he brought his other hand to her waist to hold her in place.

Real-Jonathan shook her again and said something, but Seraphina could no longer hear his voice.

Seraphina rested the wire's tip on crease of her elbow, against a dark blue vein that stood out starkly against the paleness of her skin.

"I just want to know that you love me," Jonathan prompted, and it sounded like he was struggling to keep anger and excitement out of his soft voice.

Seraphina _did _love him. With resolve and morbid curiosity, Seraphina pressed the wire harder against her skin and felt it slowly pierce the fragile layers. A scarlet bead of blood formed against her skin, and it was the most vibrant, colorful thing she had ever seen in her life. She dragged the wire slowly down her arm to her wrist, and marveled over the feeling of it slicing through her skin. It was painful, but she didn't mind. It was also beautiful, and she could tell it made her brother happy.

Jonathan's vicious smile faded and was replaced with an expression of wonderment as he gazed in rapture at the rivulets of blood that marred her alabaster skin. Seeing how affected her brother had become at the sight of her love for him, Seraphina felt a deep contentment. As the cut in her arm stung and throbbed and the feeling intensified, Seraphina found she almost enjoyed the sensation. It was distracting and consuming, and she liked the color of it. It was deep and multifaceted, and she had never seen something so dark glisten as prettily.

"I _do _love you," Seraphina murmured to her brother.

He didn't say it back to her, but he gave her a twisted smile and brought her arm up to his lips. He kissed her wound, and when he drew away, her blood coated his lips.

Seraphina looked down at her arm again, and she gave a small, delicate laugh. Jonathan looked surprised for a moment, but then he began laughing too, and he moved his hand from her wrist to her hand, entwining their fingers.

Real-Jonathan grasped her hand, too, and as her memory and her reality joined together in that small, affectionate gesture, she was finally able to tear her mind free of the snare of her memories. She clutched her brother's fingers desperately, using his touch as an anchor to the real world, and when he squeezed her hands in return she was jolted even further out of the memory.

With relief and desperation, she sloughed off the remnants of her nightmarish memory, peeling away the layers of darkness and blood and fear to reveal the sunlit shed and her brother's concerned, not-venomous expression.

"Where were you?" Jonathan asked quietly. He was aware of this habit of hers, of disappearing into her mind. She thought of telling him the truth, but the memory of that day, years ago, had done enough damage for today. She knew it would only make him upset, the reminder of how cruel he had once been to her, and she didn't want to make him sad.

"Nowhere," she responded, perhaps unconvincingly. But he didn't question her. He only rose to his feet, helping her up beside him.

"We should go back," Seraphina admitted reluctantly.

"I suppose," Jonathan replied, and Seraphina knew he was as unhappy about having to face their father as she was.

They held hands as they walked through the forest, the return journey much slower than their frantic flight the night before as the siblings sought to delay their misery for as long as they could. Their father would be absolutely furious, and there would be no mercy for either of them. As they emerged from the trees into the meadow that separated the manor from the forest, they stopped holding hands, knowing that their father would be able to see them if he was looking; displays of closeness between the siblings frightened their father, especially now that they were older and less unquestionably obsequious to him, and when something frightened their father, he sought to destroy it.

Their father was waiting for them when they entered the manor, as if he had known exactly when they would arrive. He stood in the foyer, a tall and imposing dark shadow against the backdrop of the elegant manor. Seraphina slowly registered her father's appearance, acutely conscious of any potential signs of violence – subtle movements or postures that she had grown to recognize out of instinctual self-preservation; the tightening of his black eyes, the pulsing of a vein in his neck, the twitching of his fingers. Contrary to her expectations, however, Seraphina found her father the very image of restraint and composure, all straight posture and formal bearing and neutral expression.

His voice was level as he asked, "Where have you been?" but an underlying tone forewarned Seraphina that, while he wasn't angry at the moment, it would take no more than a single misstep to evoke his wrath.

Seraphina stepped forward, squaring her shoulders and steadily holding her father's eyes, preparing to explain what had happened in a way that would hopefully take most of the burden off of Jonathan's shoulders. After the way he had been acting, the last thing she wanted was for her father's ruthless abuse to send him falling back into antipathy and antagonism. If there was one thing her memory from their childhood had reminded her of, it was how grateful she was that she had managed, though not completely, to bring her brother out of his cruelty and sadism. Where before she had been growing to accept her brother's violent behavior, after seeing his capacity for kindness and empathy she was desperate to preserve it for as long as she could, no matter the consequences for herself.

But before pleading words could find their way through her lips, a deep voice interrupted.

"It's my fault," Jonathan declared steadily.

Their father's attention was diverted from Seraphina and found its new subject in Jonathan, and emotion flickered across his handsome features for the first time – surprise and wonderment and an underlying worry.

Seraphina was just as surprised as their father. Perhaps the one endeavor that had always brought Seraphina and her father together, the only bond between them that had not been broken by his descent into abuse and violence, was their effort to instill human emotions within Jonathan. While Valentine was more interested in the imitation of human emotions and Seraphina wanted her brother to actually _feel _them, their efforts had been similar throughout the years. Throughout Jonathan's life, they had managed to teach him happiness and concern and other, lighter emotions, but neither Valentine nor Seraphina were ever certain if Valentine's lessons and Seraphina's care were really getting through to Jonathan. They weren't concerned with his ability to feel dark emotions – anger, violence, bloodlust, jealousy – those came naturally to him, came far too easily to him. But even in all their effort and hope, _selflessness _was not something they had ever seen as a possibility for Jonathan. To deny the ingrained animalistic instincts of self-preservation, to let love and compassion overshadow the darkness of his soul – it seemed utterly impossible.

Yet here he was, stepping forward to accept pain and punishment to protect his sister. Seraphina felt a glowing pride and happiness more exalting than any emotion she could remember having in her entire life – she had been right about Jonathan, right that he could care about people, love them and protect them.

Valentine, perhaps more perceptive and realistic than his daughter, felt only a puzzled wonderment and a sense of worry – Jonathan's behavior was not an indication of any major progress in his endeavor to achieve human emotions, but rather a signification of the intensity of his feelings for his sister alone, a possession and dominion over her that drove him to sacrifice himself just to keep her.

Seraphina, unaware of her father's perception of the unprecedented occurrence, felt a dampening in her spirit only because she soon realized – and cursed herself for forgetting – that this meant her brother would face pain and punishment and shame, all because he had finally chosen to let even the smallest fragment of light pierce through the darkness of his soul. It wasn't an altogether significant occurrence – emotions became thoughts and thoughts became words, a small act of kindness, a brother looking after his little sister. But for Jonathan, it was momentous – a small ray of light was birthed in an endless sea of darkness, a burst of possession became an action of protection.

Jonathan was still standing bravely before their father, his posture confident and his gaze never faltering. Silence weighed heavy on the air, and Seraphina felt her lungs and heart and muscles being compressed under its encumbrance. Her sensitive ears detected a slight falter in the unbroken silence – a low wind that whistled through the cavernous manor, augmenting the dark, ominous mood that hovered over the small family.

"Punishment _will _be given," their father finally broke the silence with his deep voice, "to _both _of you." Seraphina stepped forward to stand beside her brother, and he reached a hand out to grasp hers. As their father's eyes followed the movement, Jonathan brought their clasped hands behind him, hiding them from sight. Seraphina was frightened – for her brother, for herself – but at least she wouldn't be alone this time.

"But not today," their father continued. It took Seraphina a moment to absorb his words, and she felt Jonathan's confusion mirror her own. _Not today? _

"We'll be having guests tonight," their father elaborated, and while it explained why their punishment would be delayed, Seraphina faced a different confusion at the prospect of guests at their house. "I expect both of you to be polite and presentable. Dinner will be at eight o'clock, and you will meet me in the foyer at half past seven. Until then, I will not see you, I will not hear you, and I will not need to repeat these instructions."

When he was finished, he peered at his children for a long moment, his gaze contemplative and searching. Jonathan turned and exited the room, pulling his sister behind him with his grip on her hand, seeking escape from the intensity of their father's gaze. Seraphina allowed herself to be led by her brother, but she glanced back at their father apprehensively and felt dread pool in her stomach from what she saw in him. Worry, betrayal, anger, fear. And beneath that, a dark storm brewing in the depths of his black eyes, swelling and rising with ominous strength. She shivered and squeezed Jonathan's hand, and when he looked at her he seemed to know, and he pulled her closer to him and quickened his pace. They left their father behind in the foyer, but they felt the weight of his gaze for a very long time.

* * *

The manor remained silent all afternoon, just as their father had demanded. But that didn't mean that Jonathan and Seraphina were behaving themselves. In retrospect, it was poor planning on their father's part to inform them of their impending punishment in advance, because it wasn't in neither Jonathan nor Seraphina's nature to be obedient and compliant for no reason. And if they would be experiencing pain and misery eventually anyway, there certainly was no reason for them not to have their fun. And if there was one thing Jonathan and Seraphina had learned from growing up neglected and left to their own devices in an isolated mansion, it was how to entertain themselves. And if there was one thing that inspired deviousness and wickedness in the Morgenstern children, it was the prospect of guests.

It was certainly a very exciting prospect. "Guests" meant their father's associates. Guests meant people who would not like Jonathan and Seraphina, and who Jonathan and Seraphina wouldn't like. Guests meant boring conversations between boring people. Guests meant uncomfortable small talk and even more uncomfortable clothes. But guests also meant new people – their minds and spirits a blank canvas, a beckoning playground to two troubled siblings predisposed to mischief and manipulation. To put it bluntly, Seraphina and Jonathan Morgenstern found a perverse pleasure in tormenting their father's guests.

In preparation, they slunk around the house all day – sometimes separate, sometimes together – playing small games with a multitude of complex, unexplainable rules, games that they had invented when they were children. These games acted almost as an exercise for them, a warm-up in strategy, stealth, and devilry.

Jonathan started a small fire in his sister's room as a distraction and then stole her coveted sketchbook and hid it in their father's bedroom, snickering as he imagined her finding a way to get it back.

Seraphina, in anticipation of the snack her brother made for himself every day at 1:30, replaced the sugar in the kitchen with salt and giggled uncontrollably when she heard the tortured, gagging coughs from the kitchen an hour later.

After they had exhausted their options for good-natured tricks, the siblings met in the library for a truce in favor of continuing into the cruel possibilities that remained their only options – cruelties that they would normally have committed against each other, but on this occasion decided to forgo in honor of their recently renewed closeness. With an alliance between the siblings, only one victim remained in the manor – Valentine Morgenstern.

"But it's always with him," Seraphina pointed out worriedly after a few minutes of planning with her brother.

"Aren't you curious?" Jonathan challenged, and his own curiosity blazed in the depths of dark eyes.

"Well, yes, but –"

"Don't be nervous," Jonathan interrupted. "It is _us_, after all. We can do it."

It wasn't necessarily that Seraphina doubted their ability or feared punishment for what they were about to do – it was more a fear of what they would find. But her brother took her hand and called her "Phina" and she soon found herself following him through the manor, until they reached the spiral staircase and parted ways to carry out the rest of the plan. She leaned on a railing and waited for the signal, feeling excitement and apprehension in equal measure igniting her blood and inducing flutters in her chest. Her heartbeat seemed to slow in her anticipation, and a few short minutes felt like hours as she waited for her brother to do his part.

Finally, she heard it – shattering glass, an alarmed shout – and she ducked into an empty doorway just as her father burst through the doors of his office, alarmed and irate at the interruption. She waited until her father passed her and his footsteps faded into obscurity before she crept from her hiding place and leapt through the still-open doors of his study. After years of training, a moment was all she needed to absorb all of her surroundings – burgundy walls, a dark wooden floor, an imposing desk piled with endless pages and books full of research and notes.

She found what she was looking for with a surge of relief, and only then did she realize that she hadn't really expected their plan to work. But there it was – their father's black book – the one he was always writing in but that the siblings had never been able to read, the one that he always kept with him, the one that he used during all of his "experiments."

Seraphina reached for it with trembling fingers, with a sudden, overwhelming feeling that this moment was supremely momentous. As her fingers neared the book, she could feel its darkness as if it were a mist descending, clouding and obscuring and emanating misery. A startling noise came from down the hall, a noise she recognized but didn't comprehend. Her fingers touched the black binding, and it breathed its frigidity and desolation into her fingertips, and the horrible, chilling emotion dripped through her veins like acid and ice. The unmistakable tread of footsteps on wood flooring created an echo that rang through high ceilings. Her heart pounded in her ears, a discordance of violent emotions resounded in her mind, and her thoughts swelled loudly like a chaotic symphony.

As her fingers closed around the book, Seraphina snapped back into awareness with a startled jolt, and her mind frantically made sense of the events she had failed to comprehend while under the strange spell of the black book. A shout from her father, mutters from her brother, footsteps coming towards her. She tightened her slim fingers around the worn cover of the book, and sprang back out into the hallway, managing to hide the book behind her back just as her father rounded the corner and she collided with his broad chest.

Her father reeled away in surprise and reached out a hand to steady Seraphina as she swayed away from him, but she leapt nimbly out of his reach and bounded down the hallway, continuously adjusting the book so that it remained out of his sight. An exasperated sigh was the only pursuit he gave, and it trailed softly in Seraphina's wake before the manor settled into silence once more.

Although not physically exerted, Seraphina's heart continued to race as she ran to find Jonathan, her nervousness giving way to exhilaration as she began to grasp the events that had just occurred. She could hardly believe that they had actually succeeded, and though she knew that the punishment would be awful should their father look for the notebook before they had the chance to put it back, and that she almost positively wouldn't like what was written in its worn pages, the thought that she and her brother executed a small, only vaguely rebellious assault against their father and actually succeeded gave her a delightful feeling of accomplishment.

Seraphina found her brother in the library, and he sprang to his feet as soon as she entered the room. As she approached him, her smile faltered when she saw the slight discoloration on his cheek and understood with new recognition the noises she had heard when she had been inside her father's office. She brought a delicate hand up to his face but paused before she touched him, recalling with a resigned sadness how often affection had made Jonathan lash out. Things were better between them, yes, but it hadn't even been 24 hours, and Seraphina did not feel inclined to push her luck.

She let her hand fall down to her side, and her brother, having remained completely still throughout the exchange, moved forward to take the book from her hands. He rewarded her with a twisted smile – the best he could manage – and Seraphina gave her own slightly grimacing smile; she felt both a growing distance between her and her brother – reestablishing itself as the darkness that invaded their lives settled back into their hearts – and the apprehension that she had felt earlier, that perhaps stealing the book was a mistake.

"Do you want to read it together?" Jonathan asked.

Responding instinctually to her roiling nervousness and dread, Seraphina shook her head. Jonathan gave an indifferent shrug and examined the book's cover as he walked to an antique couch in a comfortable corner of the library. Seraphina went to the other side of the room and perched on the soft cushions in front of a large bay window, her brow slightly furrowed in worry and thought.

As her brother opened the book and began his perusal of its contents, Seraphina was unable to forget the haunting, chilling terror she had felt when she first touched the book. She looked through the glass of the window at her side to see a small span of lush, green grass that merged into the deep, wild forest. She wondered if maybe she was crazy. She watched a rabbit cautiously, slowly hop across the grass, eyes wide and large ears alert, and then it frantically turned and darted in the opposite direction, startled by something Seraphina couldn't see or hear. She knew it was impossible that the book could actually have that effect on her on its own, and she wondered why she had felt it anyway. She watched the tips of the trees' tallest branches, dark and stark against the cloudy afternoon sky, sway in the heavy wind that rolled through the hills. She pondered the tumultuous intensity of her emotions, their constant tendency to utterly overwhelm her, consume her, and she felt a deep confusion and a deep uncertainty. She looked over to her brother where he lay on the couch with his long legs stretched out in front of him, his long fingers clutching the book and occasionally turning the page.

Seraphina didn't know why the book had made her feel that way. She knew with the logical aspect of her knowledge that the book itself hadn't caused the ordeal, but something had to have. It was something about her – something _in _her – something powerful and intense and very, very _different. _Maybe she really was insane. She had certainly wondered before – wondered why she felt emotions so intensely and passionately; why her whims were so volatile; why her thoughts sometimes seemed like sentient beings rather than just ideas, things that could breathe and grow and consume her, why they had grown from a portion of her mind under her control into things that could whisper and torment. Her mind no longer felt like a part of her. It felt like something else – a cage she was trapped inside of, a darkness she couldn't escape.

But regardless of where Seraphina's emotions came from, there was one thing that she knew with certainty – she would always trust them. It didn't matter if her reaction to the book had been a result of insanity or instability or something else, what mattered was what the experience had informed her of – the book was dark, the book was dangerous, and the book would make her sad.

But she _did _want to know what it said. She wanted to know very much. She knew with absolute certainty that the majority of the book, if not all of it, was about her and Jonathan – about their blood and their abilities and their relationship. She deserved to know what their father had deduced from his torturous experiments on them and his cruel manipulations of their emotions. Her and her brother had suffered pain, heartbreak, and misery at the hands of their father, and they deserved to know why.

With renewed anger and vigor singing in her blood, Seraphina sidled over to her brother and perched on the arm of the couch he was leaning against. She rested her chin on his shoulder, and he acknowledged her by leaning lightly into her touch.

She read over his shoulder and was surprised to see not only written notes but also scrawled pictures and excerpts from books pasted onto the pages. The page Jonathan was reading was about him, presumably written during one of their father's experiments on him. Their father's handwriting outlined the experiment – injecting demon blood into Jonathan and observing its effect on him. But, according to the notes, the blood hadn't had any effect at all, so their father had instead switched to testing Jonathan's capacity for pain. Seraphina winced as she read the notes and gave her brother's shoulder a comforting squeeze.

He turned the page when they were finished, and the next page was about Seraphina. Their father had decided to test her capacity for pain as well, and Seraphina remembered the experiment vividly. It had been the most recent one, the one she had been released from a few hours before the spar with her brother just a few days before. Seraphina merely skimmed their father's notes, remembering all too well the methods he had used and her reactions to them. In the closing notes of the experiment, their father concluded that both Seraphina and Jonathan possessed a heightened and remarkable ability to suppress pain and maintain their enhanced cognitive function even under the most arduous of agonies. Seraphina felt a twinge of relief upon seeing that their father had apparently received the information he had desired from the experiment, because that meant he wouldn't need to perform it again.

The page after that was about both Jonathan and Seraphina, and had several scribbled, seemingly random notes about their exchanges and behaviors with each other. Seraphina started at the top of the page with an entry dated Tuesday, May 12th – about a month ago.

_"Tuesday, May 12__th__._

_J and S had many small scuffles throughout the week, today's fight extremely violent. J – several contusions, bruised ribs, sprained ankle. S – broken wrist, lacerations (appear to be inflicted with glass or similar material). Exchange lasted nearly 3 hours. Saw neither for the rest of the day."_

_"Wednesday, May 13__th__._

_J and S appeared close in training, no sign of resentment leftover from their bout. Spent the remainder of the day together – held hands, read together. S taught J a song on the piano, J seemed more receptive than is usual."_

_"Friday, May 15__th__._

_Witnessed a small scrap between siblings, seemed to have started when J took S' sketchbook. Lasted approx. 10 minutes. No serious injuries. Seemingly good-natured. J and S left manor and spent day in forest. Did not return until very late. Slept in library together."_

Seraphina soon stopped reading the notes, finding them to be mere accounts of their behavior rather than an interesting interpretation of it. It seemed their father really didn't understand them very well at all. Jonathan seemed to find them useless as well, for he turned the page before either had finished reading all of the notes to start reading the next.

This page was about Seraphina exclusively, but it was mostly blank. Puzzled, Seraphina read the only paragraph on the page. It was the same paragraph that had begun their father's notes on the experiment in which he injected demon blood into Jonathan, but instead of notes from the experiment following the introduction, the rest of the page was empty. After a moment, Seraphina realized why – it was because he hadn't done the experiment on her yet.

Jonathan turned to look at her, their faces so close that his nose brushed her cheek. Seraphina felt an anxious hopelessness as she realized her father must be planning to run the experiment soon if he had already begun it in his book, and she shuddered at the thought of spending another week in the dark, miserable cellar.

"It will be okay," Jonathan said quietly. "Nothing happened to me, remember?"

Seraphina had a feeling that that was because his blood already _was_ demon blood, but she appreciated his attempt at reassurance and gave him a small smile.

"Speaking of learning the piano," Jonathan said, "you never finished teaching me that song."

Seraphina's smile was genuine that time, and she gratefully rose to her feet. Jonathan followed her to the doors of the library, tossing the book onto a small table as they passed it; their father almost never came into the library.

"Race you," he challenged without warning before instantly springing forward, pushing Seraphina aside and bolting through the doors.

Seraphina stumbled and frantically regained her balance, leaping after Jonathon and catching up with him just as they passed through the foyer. She sprang forward and collided with his back, causing him to stumble, and then she pushed him to the side. He gave a small grunt as he fell heavily against the wall, and he threw out his hand and caught Seraphina's ankle with stunning speed. She lurched forward but managed to catch herself before her face slammed into the floor. Jonathan leapt to his feet and burst past her, laughing.

Seraphina laughed too and sprang to her feet. She bounded after her brother, her fighting instincts taking over her thoughts and driving her forward with increasing speed. Her brother was almost at the doors to the music room. She coursed forward and pounced onto his back, pulling him back before he could cross the threshold of the doorway. He stepped backward and slammed her back against the wall, and she pulled his hair and refused to let go. When Jonathan growled in pain, she let go of his hair and flipped off his back and over his head. Free of her weight, her brother bounded forward as well, and they ended up squeezing through the doorway at the same time.

Upon entering the music room, both lost their balance, and the siblings ended up rolling across the floor in a jumble of tangled limbs. It took some maneuvering to get their legs untangled and Seraphina's long hair out of the buttons of Jonathan's shirt, especially because they kept stopping to pinch or shove each other when Jonathan pulled Seraphina's hair too hard or Seraphina accidentally brushed against the sore bruise below Jonathan's eye.

"Tie," they declared in unison once they were finished.

They rose to their feet and sat next to each other on the piano bench, the small scuffle - similar to those they had every day - already forgotten. Seraphina resumed Jonathan's lesson where they had left off the last time. She remembered how he had grown impatient and restless, and how he had poked her and prodded her and tugged on her hair until she agreed to go out into the forest with him. Jonathan had always loved the forest, and above all he had always enjoyed being alone with her there.

But Jonathan appeared determined and devoted to the task this time, and he was learning quite quickly. Art and music had always been very enjoyable to Seraphina and very boring to Jonathan, but occasionally, when he wanted something from her or wanted to make her kinder towards him, Jonathan would submit himself to the activities because he knew they made his sister more calm and joyful. Not that "joyful" had ever been an accurate word to apply to the morose and melancholy Seraphina, but moments like this were about as happy as Jonathan ever saw her.

* * *

Seraphina stood in front of the mirror in her bedroom, examining her appearance for anything that her father would be able to criticize. She wore a dark emerald A-line dress that appeared intensely vibrant against her pale skin and crimson hair. With dissatisfaction she observed that the darkness of the fabric made her pale skin appear even paler and highlighted the dark circles under her eyes – she looked exhausted and gaunt and a bit washed out – but the dress was almost the exact shade of her eyes, and she liked that, so she decided to wear it.

She had a red dress that might compliment her skin more nicely, but the last time she had worn it her father had acted very strange and distant and cruel, and he had eventually gotten so angry at her that he had hit her hard enough to draw blood. Seraphina had recognized his behavior as the way he acted when he was reminded of her and Jonathan's mother. Seraphina then deduced that her mother must have worn red dresses, and she had then resolved to never wear one again.

And so it was that the red dress she preferred lay forgotten in the back of her closet, and Seraphina gazed with dissatisfaction at her appearance in the mirror. She had decided against wearing makeup, figuring that her father's "guests" weren't worth the effort, whoever they were, so her face looked the same as it always did. Large, round eyes – on the verge of being far too large for her face – tapered at the edges, an entrancing, dark shade of green glowed in the low lighting of the room. Long, dark eyelashes cast slight shadows on high, angular cheekbones. It was a thin face with a smooth, pale complexion and delicate, sharp features. It was a pretty face. She didn't like it.

Seraphina glanced at the clock and gave a long, dramatic sigh, because it was almost time to meet her father and her brother in the foyer. She wished she was still with her brother in the library; they had spent hours there together, talking and laughing and eventually not taking the piano playing very seriously, and she had been happier than she could remember being in a very long time. Inevitably, though, the sun had set and they had realized that they had waited as long as they possibly could, and they had both had to rush to their rooms and hurry to get ready.

Seraphina randomly chose a pair of simple, black heels and then exited her room, blowing out the candles on her way out. She wished she had been able to draw something in her sketchbook before dinner, to get some of her anxiousness and unhappiness out of her head and onto paper instead, but she hadn't had time. Even if she had, her sketchbook wasn't where she could have sworn she had left it, and she hadn't been able to find it anywhere in her room.

Sending her worry over her missing sketchbook out of the forefront of her mind, she made her way through the empty halls of the manor, dreading the moment when she would inevitably reach the foyer and her night of misery would begin.

As she descended the spiral staircase, she saw that her brother and father were already there, but she knew she wasn't late and wasn't worried about her father being angry. They both turned to watch her descent, Jonathan's eyes shining with admiration and pride, and her father's brow furrowed in contemplation as he examined her appearance. Seraphina felt herself blushing, finding the entire ordeal to be extremely awkward and impossibly embarrassing, and she childishly wished that she could be invisible.

Jonathan walked up to meet her at the foot of the staircase, and they stood on the bottom step together, behind their father. Jonathan looked very handsome in his dark suit, his blonde hair strikingly light against the black fabric, and Seraphina gave his tie a light tug of approval. Jonathan looked away from her once they were standing next to each other, but their father continued to gaze at Seraphina, the emotions in his eyes enigmatic and indecipherable. Seraphina noticed a glistening in his eyes as she gazed back at him and wondered in shock if they could actually be tears, but he turned away from her to face the doorway and she found herself gazing at his broad back instead.

Seraphina looked around the foyer, thinking it looked very pretty illuminated by the moonlight. The painting of the Angel was especially luminescent, his gaze serene and affectionate, like a proud father looking down on his children. She wondered if the Angel really was proud of them, the Shadowhunters; if they were everything he had hoped they would be. Her father certainly didn't think so. Seraphina saw that her father was looking at the painting too, and then, feeling her gaze, he turned to look at her. His eyes were very thoughtful, and Seraphina liked to think she saw a small trace of the pride there, like the pride in the Angel's eyes. She felt Jonathan looking at her as well, and when she turned to him his eyes were slightly sad, as if he wished someone would look at him that way too.

A sharp rap on one of the front doors startled the family out of their thoughts, and Seraphina and Jonathan started lightly. Their father strode forward and opened both doors, welcoming his guests inside. Jonathan and Seraphina sighed in unison as they saw who it was, their eyes meeting in a shared look of distaste.

Pangborn and Blackwell entered the foyer, sparing the siblings only the slightest glance of malice before giving Valentine their full attention. They flattered him in pathetic, fearful deference, remarking on how beautiful his home was and how honored they were to have been invited. It was the same nonsense they spewed every time they visited – countless times since the siblings had been born – and Seraphina thought irritably that they could at least think of something interesting to say. Pangborn commented on how lovely Jonathan and Seraphina looked with a leering, venomous glance in their direction, and the siblings shot him identical expressions of mocking disgust.

Finally, Pangborn and Blackwell ceased their kowtowing blubbering, and Jonathan and Seraphina concurrently moved to enter the dining room. Before they could pass their father, however, he held out a hand to stop them.

"Not yet," he commanded. "We're still waiting for someone."

Jonathan raised an eyebrow in confusion that mirrored Seraphina's, and Seraphina saw Blackwell shoot her a gleeful, patronizing look as he realized he had been made privy to information that the siblings hadn't.

"Who-" Seraphina began to ask, but the door opened behind her and interrupted her thoughts.

The group collectively turned to face the new arrival, and this time Seraphina and Jonathan let out a simultaneous noise far more dramatic than a sigh. Their eyes met in horror and revulsion as the object of their aversion entered the foyer with a flourish – and quite rude it was, in Seraphina's opinion, because she hadn't knocked and no one had invited her in. Her father would have been appalled if Seraphina had acted so impolitely.

But Vivienne Bellefleur was given a kiss on the cheek rather than a rebuff when she sauntered across the foyer to stop in front of their father. She was wearing a red gown that hugged her ample curves and flared out at her calves, her dark hair in an elaborate coil at the back of her neck. Seraphina suddenly felt supremely grateful that she hadn't worn her red dress, because her slender frame certainly wouldn't have looked as attractive in it as Vivienne's voluptuous form did in hers. Vivienne's physical attractiveness, however, did nothing to diminish the extreme displeasure and uneasiness that the siblings felt in her presence. The infuriating woman had been an unwelcome presence in their lives since they were very young, and whenever she visited she showed the same mindless infatuation with their father and condescending unpleasantness towards them.

When she had finished greeting their father, Vivienne turned her attention to the siblings.

"Oh, _Jonathan, _don't you just look so handsome tonight!" she pronounced. "Why, you look just like your father." With that comment, she giggled girlishly and batted her eyelashes, and though Seraphina was pleased that her brother wasn't the least bit affected by Vivienne's cheap flattery, she couldn't help but roll her eyes at how ridiculous the woman was acting.

The movement, unfortunately, caught Vivienne's eye, and she then turned all of her attention to Seraphina. "This can't be little Seraphina, can it?" Seraphina felt a surge of annoyance at the term "little," knowing full well that Vivienne had used it intentionally to patronize her. "My, my," Vivienne cooed. "You have grown into _quite _the fetching creature." With that remark, her gaze slid across Seraphina's skin in appraisal, and Seraphina forced herself not to shudder.

"Wouldn't you agree, boys?" Vivienne addressed Pangborn and Blackwell for the first time, and both shot a nervous glance in Valentine's direction, obviously unsure of whether agreeing or disagreeing would be more offensive to him. Seraphina knew that Vivienne had put them in that position on purpose, and she reluctantly allowed herself to be mildly impressed and a bit satisfied – Seraphina and Jonathan were much cleverer and better at manipulation than Vivienne was, but at least the woman was competent enough to realize that Pangborn and Blackwell were incompetent imbeciles undeserving of even the slightest trace of respect.

Jonathan and Seraphina's father gave Pangborn and Blackwell a challenging glare, and in their panic Pangborn hastily agreed and Blackwell hastily disagreed. Then they stood in nervous uncertainty under Valentine's irritated scrutiny, as Jonathan and Seraphina looked on in delight. Vivienne put an end to their fun, however, when she insisted that everyone make their way to the dining room.

The candlelit dining room was enormous, and even with six individuals the large table wasn't half-occupied. Seraphina approached her normal seat on her father's right side, but Vivienne brushed past her brusquely and took the place for herself. Seraphina had the urge to pounce on Vivienne and put an end to her pretentious insults for the remainder of the night, but Jonathan rested a hand on her shoulder, his fingers brushing against her collarbone, and guided her to the left side of their father's seat. The seat next to Jonathan had already been occupied by Pangborn, but the combined glares of Jonathan and Seraphina soon sent him hurrying to occupy a different seat, and Seraphina found her anger slightly appeased as she settled next to her brother.

Seraphina had a feeling that her father had witnessed the entire exchange, but he hadn't said anything. When she looked to him where he sat at the head of the table, he gave her a secret, subtle wink, and she felt her anger vanish completely.

Dinner was rather uneventful, with Jonathan and Seraphina keeping themselves occupied by harassing Pangborn and Blackwell – throwing food at them, kicking them, pouring ridiculous amounts of salt onto their food; all while Valentine wasn't looking. Again, Seraphina got the feeling that her father noticed, but he didn't comment on it. Seraphina wondered if he enjoyed watching Pangborn and Blackwell choke down excessively salted steak as much as she and Jonathan did, and figured he probably did enjoy it very much.

The food tasted alright, but Seraphina soon lost her appetite as she watched Vivienne fawn over their father all throughout dinner, laughing loudly and dramatically and finding constant excuses to touch him. Their father didn't pay her much attention and certainly didn't encourage her, but Vivienne pressed on relentlessly, and Seraphina and Jonathan shared disgusted grimaces at regular intervals.

It was a relief when the meal was finally over and their father brought up the business that was the reason for the dinner in the first place. "Now," he began. "Pangborn, Blackwell; why don't you start with the 'important development' you mentioned in your letter."

Pangborn, the marginally more intelligent of the two, began to speak, but Vivienne quickly – and _rudely_, Seraphina thought – interrupted him.

"Val," she whined, and this time Seraphina thought she actually might vomit. "Are you sure you want to talk about all of this in front of… the _children_?" She shot an unsavory glance in the siblings' direction – at Seraphina in particular – and pronounced the word 'children' with a sneer that made it obvious she would have preferred a different word to describe them.

Their father shot a venomous, terrifying glare in Vivienne's direction, and Seraphina knew he had grown as frustrated with the woman as Seraphina and Jonathan had. "_My _children," he pronounced dangerously, "are far more capable and deserving of being involved in my plans than anyone else in this room." Everyone else in that room knew that the insult was meant directly for Vivienne, and she flushed unattractively before falling into silence for the first time all night.

"Now," their father turned away from Vivienne, but the anger hadn't left his tone, "Pangborn, you were saying?"

"Uh, y-yes sir," Pangborn stammered nervously. "What we came to tell you is that we…." He looked nervously at Blackwell, but Blackwell made it clear that Pangborn was on his own to deliver whatever news he was trying to force past his nervous lips. Pangborn took a deep breath and began again, his voice louder and more steady this time. "We found your wife."

Valentine stiffened, his expression stony, and Jonathan and Seraphina looked to each other in shock and surprise. They hadn't known their father had even been _looking _for their mother; Seraphina could count on one hand all of the times he had ever mentioned her.

"_Where?_" Valentine demanded lowly.

"New York," Pangborn responded uncertainly.

"New York City," Blackwell clarified.

"On second thought," their father said slowly, "perhaps we _should _continue this in private." He threw an apprehensive look in his children's direction, and Seraphina thought he feared what their reaction would be to the news of their mother.

Vivienne perked up at that and gave Seraphina a condescending look of false-pity before rising to her feet to follow Valentine out of the dining room, but their father raised a hand to stop her. "Actually, Vivienne, why don't you stay and keep them company." He didn't wait for a response before leading Pangborn and Blackwell away, most likely to his study, and Seraphina would have laughed at Vivienne's expression if she weren't so unhappy about having to spend more time with Vivienne.

Jonathan and Seraphina settled contentedly back into their seats, and Jonathan gestured to the chair across from them. "Please, Vivienne," he requested with perfect politeness, "Take a seat."

Vivienne still looked furious, but Seraphina saw a glint of fear flash in the woman's brown eyes as she abided by Jonathan's request. Seraphina knew that her brother would have noticed it as well, being as aware of people's weaknesses as she was, and without speaking they agreed on a course of action with a short glance.

Vivienne was as unhappy about having to babysit the siblings as they were to have a babysitter, but on the totem pole of Valentine's followers, no one was above Jonathan and Seraphina, so she wisely attempted to keep her distaste to herself. Perhaps someone else wouldn't have been able to decipher the rushing emotions behind her eyes, but Jonathan and Seraphina were extremely apt at defeating their opponents in any field they had to, and emotional manipulation just happened to be one of Seraphina's strong suits. She stared at Vivienne for a very long time, latching onto every emotion that passed through the woman's eyes and cataloging it in her mind, reveling in how nervous the woman became under the weight of her gaze.

When she had enough to accomplish what she wanted to, Seraphina gave Vivienne a slow, lazy smile. "Must feel pretty awful, huh?" Seraphina inquired curiously, "being left behind with the kids while the grown-ups talk about important things."

Vivienne grew indignant at that, but maintained her usual elegance when she replied. "The very fact that I was _invited _here shows that Valentine values my loyalty," she remarked primly.

"Does he? Or does he value brother's connection to the Clave?" Jonathan asked. Their father had told the siblings that Vivienne's brother was a council member and had mentioned that he wished he could negotiate with the man directly, but he was too closely watched and their father had to settle for working through the man's "maddening sister" instead.

A flash of insecurity passed over Vivienne's face, and Seraphina adopted a comforting tone. "Oh, don't feel bad. Number five is still pretty good, right?" Seraphina had purposely included her and her brother in the number of people above Vivienne as far as their father was concerned, and Vivienne noticed.

"You think _you're _above me?" Vivienne sneered arrogantly. "You're nothing but a child. I'll have you know it was _me_ Valentine came to for help when he wanted to rebuild the Circle."

"Well, of course," Seraphina agreed. "Tell me, Vivienne, if _you _were going to rebuild a secret, illegal society, at the danger of everyone involved, and you weren't sure if the people you contacted would be found and killed or not, would you _really _go to your most valued confident first?"

"Of course she wouldn't," Jonathan mock-scolded her. "Vivienne's not _that _dim, is she? She would test it out on someone first. Someone… disposable, let's say."

Vivienne's confidence had long since faltered and disappeared, and now the only emotion she had left to spare for the siblings was unbridled hatred.

"In fact," Jonathan dropped the jovial façade that had previously colored his voice, and his tone was now dark and full of malice and danger. "I'd say you're _still _disposable. I doubt our father would notice your absence at all."

"Then why would he invite me tonight?" Vivienne challenged, quite clearly believing she had found the loophole in the sibling's argument. To their delight, however, she had walked directly into the trap they had set for her.

"Well, Vivienne," Jonathan continued, the siblings both knowing that he should do the majority of the talking now; Seraphina could be quite intimidating, but she could never quite manage the level of ominous malevolence that her brother could. "Has our father ever told you about our… training?"

Vivienne shook her head, obviously affected by the danger in his voice.

"He wants us to be killers, you see. That's what we're for. But sometimes… training alone just isn't… _satisfying._"

Seraphina didn't expect the dull woman to catch on, but somehow she did. "You can't honestly expect me to believe that Valentine invited me here so that you could _kill _me." Vivienne laughed, but the nervous rushing of the sound alit the siblings' predatory instincts with a slow, burning heat.

Jonathan laughed with her, uproariously and dramatically. "Oh, Vivienne," he sighed, as if she had told a hilarious joke, "Of course not."

He took a deep, world-weary breath. "What I'm saying," the humor had all but left his voice, and only a twisted, dark imitation of it remained accompanied by malicious wickedness, "isn't that he invited you here so that we could kill you. What I'm saying is that he wouldn't _mind_ if we did."

Vivienne stiffened noticeably; there was no mistaking the threat in Jonathan's voice. She looked at Seraphina, then, pleadingly – perhaps for Seraphina to admit that it was all a big joke, or maybe just for Seraphina to restrain her brother. All Seraphina gave her was a smooth, wicked smile that manifested her predatory glee.

"This is ridiculous!" Vivienne snapped, attempting to veil her fear with impatience. "I'm no fool. I understand your father is a revolutionary, but even he has respect for the integrity of our race. We're _Shadowhunters_, not Downworlders. We don't just... _murder _people. Even you aren't that monstrous."

"What we _aren't_, Vivienne, is _human_," Jonathan spat. "Surely our father told you _that _much, since he holds your loyalty with such high esteem."

Vivienne's expression revealed that their father had, in fact, informed her of this information, but that she had forgotten about it until that moment.

"We just don't follow the same rules people do, Vivienne," Jonathan continued. "Here, in this big, empty manor, my sister and I…. well, we essentially do whatever he want. And right now…" Jonathan laughed with ominous derision. "I _really _want to rip your fucking heart out of your chest." With his last words, he had abandoned all attempts at sounding polite or casual, and even Seraphina had to repress a shiver at the cold cruelty of his voice.

Vivienne paled considerably and rose to her feet, and Seraphina and Jonathan rose with her, lithe and quick. Vivienne's eyes widened and she began backing away from them. They held her eyes as they walked towards her, their faces remaining expressionless as she transitioned from demanding that they stop their "little game this instant" to pleading with them to simply let her leave. And they had every intention of doing so, before her fear turned into desperation and she mindlessly shouted at them, "No wonder your father had to hunt your mother down. If I were the mother of two _monsters_ like you, I would leave, too."

Jonathan laughed at that; a real laugh this time. "We don't share our father's obsession with that woman. We don't _care _that she left, and we don't care that he's found her again. She isn't important."

Vivienne's smile was grimacing and cruel. "It's a shame she isn't the only one with such sentiments towards you. Do you know your father hates you, Jonathan? Why, he was just talking about it the other day. He said you're a monster, that you don't possess even the slightest trace of humanity at all. That's why he's separating you from _her_." She gestured at Seraphina. "You hurt her too often. He doesn't want you near her anymore."

Seraphina froze, dropping her predatory façade as she recognized the violence in her brother's posture. "Jonathan," she pleaded, "Don't." She rested a hand on his arm, but he shook her off, glaring at Vivienne with renewed hatred – and it was _true _hatred this time, and Seraphina saw that Vivienne instantly realized her mistake.

In the wisest decision she had made all night, Vivienne turned and bolted out of the dining room, and Jonathan sprang after her with a rancorous growl. Seraphina followed her brother, pleading – quietly, so their father wouldn't hear – for him to just let Vivienne go. But Jonathan was far beyond reasoning as he sprinted after the dark-haired woman. Seraphina raced after Vivienne's terrified gasps and Jonathan's enraged snarls, kicking off her shoes as she went – they had already made her fall behind her brother, and her brother was drawing closer and closer to his prey.

Vivienne somehow made it through the doors of the manor without being caught by Jonathan, but Seraphina groaned in exasperation at how foolish a decision that was. If the woman had any sense, she would have run to their father - not out into the empty wilderness where there was no place to hide and no one to hear her. Now that they were outside, their father wouldn't be able to hear them, so Seraphina let out a loud scream after her brother. "Jonathan, _please_!"

Her breath came in desperate gasps as she chased after her brother – she was faster than him under normal circumstances, but he was furious and she had fallen behind early on in the ordeal.

Jonathan caught up with Vivienne just before she reached the edge of the forest, and he pounced with a loud snarl. He threw her to the ground and she let out a screeching, terrified scream, and Seraphina forced her sprinting legs to move faster still. Her brother was pinning Vivienne to the ground, his legs on either side of her torso and a hand in her hair, oblivious to the woman's feeble struggles. He pulled a knife from the inside of his jacket, and it glinted dangerously in the light of the moon.

Seraphina reached them then, gasping and afraid. "Jonathan," she tried to force as much comfort and persuasion into her voice as she could. "Come on, Jonathan. It's alright. I'm sure it isn't true. She just wanted to upset you; she didn't mean any harm. Just… Just let her go and come back inside with me. Please."

But for the first time in his life, Jonathan was oblivious to his sister's presence, and her words had no effect on him.

"I'll show you a monster," he whispered menacingly, and Vivienne screamed again – grating and shrieking and unpleasant to the siblings' sensitive ears.

Jonathan brought the knife down in a wide arc before stabbing the woman's throat, bringing her scream to an abrupt, choking halt. "_Shut- "_ he pulled his knife from her throat and then stabbed her in the chest – "_Up!" _he shouted at her.

Seraphina gasped in dismay, and Vivienne's eyes found hers in pleading terror. But Seraphina knew that there was nothing she could do now – Vivienne was dying.

Jonathan pulled his knife free once more and brought it down into the same wound, impaling her chest once more before moving it in a sawing motion. It made a horrifying noise as it cut through the bones of her chest, and blood spurted sporadically from the wound. Vivienne gasped and probably would have screamed if she could, but blood gurgled in her throat and choked her, and all she managed were soft, labored breaths. She was dead by the time Jonathan had satisfied his bloodlust through the mutilation of her body, but he whispered to her anyway, "I told you I would rip your heart from your chest." The words held no satisfaction or triumph; only a soft, resigned admission.

Seraphina stood silently behind her brother, stunned and horrified at the sight in front of her. Vivienne's skin was almost impossibly pale – washed out by the light of the moon and the touch of death – and her blood was gruesomely dark where it dripped past her lips and covered her chest. Gazing at the crimson drops against the whiteness of the woman's skin, Seraphina was reminded of a different sight – a copper wire dragging against the skin of her arm, her own blood burgundy-dark against fragile, ivory skin.

Vivienne's face was frozen in an expression of agony and terror. When Jonathan rose to his feet, his suit was rumpled and rivulets of Vivienne's blood ran down his face. Her fingernails had raked a trail down his neck where she had struggled against him, and his pale hair was disheveled and hung into his eyes. He looked terrifying, but Seraphina wasn't afraid of him. He would never hurt her.

She reached out to him, cautiously, and he dropped the knife to take her hand. "I'm sorry," he whispered brokenly.

"It's okay," she answered.

Together, they dragged Vivienne's body into the woods where their father wouldn't find it and then made their way back to the manor, Jonathan refusing to let go of her hand. Seraphina wondered if she should be angry with her brother, but this wasn't the first time this had happened, and their father had never punished Jonathan for it. Once, when Jonathan had similarly killed with such violent rage, their father had explained to Seraphina that he simply couldn't help it, that punishing him would do no good because he couldn't change.

And Jonathan seemed so vulnerable now, tired and confused and a bit ashamed of himself. "I don't know what happened," he kept mumbling, and each time, Seraphina stroked his hair or squeezed his hand and tried to comfort him, and he calmed down for a moment, but it wouldn't be long before he was whimpering again.

"What happened?" he asked her. "What happened to me?"

"It's not your fault," she answered, because that was what their father always told him. Seraphina wondered if maybe it was similar to the way she couldn't control her emotions or her thoughts, the way they constantly took control over her mind and her body. Maybe it was the same way for Jonathan, only the things it drove him to do were different.

When they reached the manor, Seraphina wondered if she should put Jonathan to bed before she went to find her father but decided against it, knowing Jonathan would refuse to leave her side. Together, they walked to their father's study, and Seraphina was pleased to hear that their father was still talking with Pangborn and Blackwell. The siblings pressed their ears against the door and listened to what the men were saying – this eavesdropping, incidentally, being the very thing they had been trying to do in driving Vivienne away, only the ending to that exchange hadn't gone as planned.

"…you going to go yourself?" Pangborn was asking.

There was a long pause before their father answered him. "No… No, I don't think I will. I don't want to risk anyone seeing me, not yet – not until our plan is concrete."

"Of course, sir," Blackwell deferred. "We would be more than happy to do it, sir."

"No, not you," their father said.

"Then… who, sir?" Blackwell inquired.

"The children?" Pangborn offered.

"Not both," Valentine responded.

"Which one?" Black well asked.

"With all due respect, sir, I see Seraphina as the more logical choice." That was Pangborn again.

"She is," Valentine concurred. "Jocelyn feared Jonathan, but she had a soft spot for Seraphina. I think she would have liked to take her with her when she left, in fact, if she could have. If the use of force can be avoided, I would prefer it. And Seraphina may be our only hope of that."

Jonathan stiffened next to Seraphina, and Seraphina felt her own dread freezing her muscles. Their father was sending her away. He was sending _just _her away – not Jonathan. Seraphina would be leaving, and Jonathan would have to stay here. She looked to her brother in dismay, and he reciprocated her agonized glance tenfold. For a moment, Seraphina feared her brother would burst through the door of the study in the mindlessness of his anger, so she turned her grasp of his hand into a clutching grip and pulled him away from the door, struggling with him the entire way as she dragged him down the hallway. She pleaded with him with her eyes, willing him to stay silent and control his anger, just for a little while. Growing aware of the desperation in her eyes, he finally stopped resisting and allowed himself to be led far enough away for their father not to hear.

She pulled him into the music room and closed the door behind them before turning to face her brother. He stood in the center of the room, gazing at her in dejected misery as if she had already abandoned him. Vivienne's blood had dried against his skin, but even with the gruesome evidence of his recent murder, Seraphina thought he looked very helpless and vulnerable standing there before her. She stepped forward and wrapped her arms around his neck, pulling him against her. He was stiff in her embrace for a long moment, but then his weary muscles drooped in tired sadness and he threw his arms around her slight form, clutching her desperately and even tighter still to his muscular torso. He let out a deep, broken sob, and she cried with him in a quiet, shared moment of grief and helplessness. Their father was separating them for the first time in their lives, and there was absolutely nothing they could do about it. Neither of them had ever felt so awful.

They stood like that for a long while before Jonathan pulled away. Their tears had dried and they had restrained themselves into their usual states of cool composure, but the agonized misery remained in Seraphina's heart like a heavy weight, and it remained in Jonathan's eyes like a shadow.

Jonathan was the first to break the silence. "Will you play the song for me?" he asked, and Seraphina almost laughed at how ridiculous it seemed to experience such heartbreaking news and then play a tune on the piano. But she complied with his request and sat before the piano, beginning the first, morose chords of the song, pouring her own sadness into the melancholy tune.

She hadn't finished the song yet when they heard it – a set of three footsteps approaching them at an urgent pace. She stopped playing. Jonathan looked at her in confusion. It wasn't that odd – Pangborn and Blackwell were probably on their way out, and to exit the manor they would need to pass the music room – but Seraphina felt something, a sense of foreboding, and she knew that something was wrong.

Upon noticing her worried, tense posture, Jonathan stiffened beside her and turned to face the door. The footsteps had almost reached them, and Seraphina hoped fervently that they would keep walking, past them, and disappear into the night. But then she heard her father's voice – "I appreciate you helping me with this. It's always so difficult on my own, especially if they're together." – and she knew with absolute certainty that something was very wrong.

Jonathan heard it too, and he rose to his feet just as the door burst open and the men rushed in in a loud flurry of commotion. Pangborn and Blackwell rushed Jonathan, their combined efforts allowing them to – just barely – wrestle him to the ground, as Valentine leapt for Seraphina. Jonathan snarled and struggled furiously, clawing and kicking and biting his assailants. Seraphina struggled, too, furious that they were hurting her brother. Pangborn slammed her brother's head into the corner of the piano bench with a vicious _crack_, and Seraphina screamed, renewing her efforts. She managed to claw free of her father's grasp, but Blackwell released his grip on the now-dazed and groggy Jonathan to catch her around the waist before she could reach Pangborn.

She snarled and squirmed, but by then her father had reached them, too, and together the men began to wrestle her towards the door. Coming back to his senses, Jonathan roared furiously at the sight before him. "Get your filthy fucking hands off of my sister!" her growled, and he incapacitated Pangborn with a furious kick to the man's stomach followed by a merciless blow to his skull. He sprang forward, and Blackwell released his grip on Seraphina to help a bloody Pangborn wrestle Jonathan back down to the floor.

Their father took the opportunity to run, with Seraphina's slight form firmly in his grip, down the hallway at full speed until he reached the door to the cellar. He managed to subdue Seraphina and simultaneously push the door open with his shoulder, and then he pushed and pulled and forced her through the doorway and into the darkness beyond. Just as he managed to get her into the stairwell, they heard a vicious shout and Jonathan came racing out of the music room and into the hall, his eyes desperate as he sprinted furiously down the hallway.

"Seraphina!" he shouted desperately as he saw where their father had taken her, understanding now what it meant.

"Jonathan," she sobbed brokenly in response, and her father pushed her behind him and slammed the door shut, frantically finding the right key on his key ring and locking the door just as Jonathan reached it.

Their father dragged Seraphina down the steps as Jonathan slammed on the door, attempting to force it open. Their father threw Seraphina onto the cold metal table and hastily subdued her limbs with the metal restraints. Upstairs, Jonathan realized he wouldn't be able to force the door open and let out a loud, agonized scream that echoed brokenly throughout the manor. The noise pierced Seraphina's heart, and she struggled desperately against her manacles, feeling them rub painfully against the thin skin of her writs and ankles as she mindlessly tried to escape so that she could comfort her brother.

Their father sighed and rubbed his eyes. "I'm… sorry, Seraphina," he said wearily. "But I have an experiment I need to complete, and I want you to be able to recover before you leave." Seraphina realized her father must have known they were eavesdropping on his conversation but simply hadn't cared.

He reached behind him and grasped his black book, and Seraphina shrunk into herself as much she could with her limbs restrained; their father knew they had stolen his book. Sure enough, he remarked dryly, "I found this in the library. That certainly isn't where I left it."

Seraphina gave a nonchalant shrug, as if she had no idea how such a strange occurrence had come to be. Her father smiled at that, sarcastically but with a trace of affection. "_Stealing _is most certainly a punishable crime," he stated matter-of-factly. "But I fear this might be punishment enough, my dear." He almost seemed regretful as he turned away from her and began preparing something she couldn't see – _almost_.

When he turned back to her, he held a syringe in his hand filled with a dark, bubbling liquid. It was demon blood. This was it – the experiment he had planned in his book but had yet to perform. He brushed the hair away from her neck and then rested a hand on her face, his fingers tilting her jaw and fully exposing the curve of her neck. He took a deep breath of resolve and then brought the syringe to her skin, the tip cool and sharp against her delicate skin. He kept it there for a tense moment, making sure it would enter a vein, before he punctured her skin and the dark liquid surged into her blood.

It felt like acid, dripping down her spine and into her heart, freezing and burning at the same time, unnerving and unnatural and agonizing. She gasped at the sensation and squirmed, feeling the sudden urge to fold in onto herself but helpless to do so. The thick liquid oozed through her veins at an excruciatingly leisure pace, and she whimpered in pain and discomfort.

The sound of her father's pen scratching against the paper of his book was grating against her ears, and the bright lights above her pierced through her eyelids and sent pain shattering through her mind. Her father asked her to explain what it felt like but she couldn't – she couldn't force her lips to move and she couldn't put into words the amount of anguish she was in.

She lay there for a long while, moving through time like a ghost as fever and nausea and misery overcame every inch of her body. She shivered and her skin glistened with sweat, and she felt a malignant, insidious darkness pervade every inch of her body, taking root and manifesting itself into an inescapable monster inside her chest. Occasionally, her father would try to give her water, but she couldn't force it past the tightness in her throat, and she would choke and sputter until her father turned her on her side to help her get it out of her mouth.

Sometime earlier, her father had released her from the restraints, but she was unable to move or think or do anything other than feel the pain and sickness in her body and wish the torment would end. In her misery, her thoughts broke through her mental barriers for the second time that day, and in addition to the illness she was forced to relive the most horrific memories she possessed, their awfulness only intensified as they joined together to form a single, cohesive world full of everything she had ever feared and the worst feelings she had ever felt.

Her father asked her something – "Is there anything that would help?" – and only one word came to her mind, and she could only force on word through her dry, cracked lips. "Jonathan," she whispered.

Later – she didn't know how much later, for time had assumed an immeasurable quality – a door slammed and footsteps approached and lights dimmed, and a hand found hers in the darkness. It was her brother, and she almost sobbed with relief as his touch and nearness drove the nightmarish world of her memories back into oblivion.

He murmured comforting words to her and lifted her into his arms before laying her gently on the floor where he had laid blankets and pillows, creating a makeshift bed big enough for both of them. The cellar floor was soothingly cool against her fevered skin and she sighed in relief, and when Jonathan laid next to her and took her hand again her relief intensified.

As time went on, her body fought the demon blood enough that it lessened into a pain she could think through, and then she was able to open her eyes. She found them level with Jonathan's where he lay on his side and stared intently at her, his brow furrowed with worry.

"I'm better now," she whispered, though her blood still burned and her heart still pounded in her chest. "Where's Dad?" she asked him.

"He left a while ago," Jonathan answered, and anger and resentment burned in his black eyes.

"Is he coming back?"

Jonathan shook his head. "Do you think you'll be able to sleep?" he asked, and Seraphina knew that if she said no he would lie awake with her all night.

She nodded shakily, her muscles week and trembling. "I think so."

They lay in silence for a long time, Seraphina's fever intensifying and subsiding in waves, leaving her burning and chilled in equal measure. When she was cold, Jonathan wrapped her in his arms, and when she was warm he reluctantly let her go and settled for holding her hand instead. Neither of them fell asleep.

Eventually, Jonathan took a deep, shaky breath. "I don't want you to leave me," he whispered, and the vulnerability had found its way back into his expression. Seraphina brushed his fair hair out of his eyes.

She wanted to reassure him, but there was nothing she could say. Their father was making her leave, and she would have to obey him. "I don't want to leave you," she finally responded. It was the only thing she could say, the only comfort she could give him. It seemed to be enough, at least for then, because the sadness in his eyes diminished by a very small amount and his desperate grip on her hand softened slightly.

She shivered, her fever bringing a chill to her skin again, and he drew her closer into the circle of his arms. They lay there, holding each other and gazing into each other's eyes and blinking in unison, until finally their restless minds and weighted hearts gave them reprieve enough to lapse into an unsteady sleep.

* * *

**Seraphina is almost ready to head off to the city that never sleeps, if you're being honest with yourself you weren't really that sad to see Vivienne go, and I have a fondness for parallels.**

**In case anyone was curious, the song that Seraphina was trying to teach Jonathan was Moonlight Sonata, at least in my mind.**

**I would really appreciate some feedback on this chapter; of course, I always appreciate feedback, but I'm nervous and uncertain about this chapter in particular, so if you could take a quick minute to let me know what you thought/liked/didn't like, I would be very grateful. **

**Thanks for reading.**


	6. Chapter 6

**I got some very lovely reviews on the last chapter, and, at the risk of sounding like a broken record, I would like to tell you how much it means to me. It really, really does. I even got an amazingly kind message on tumblr, which was a very pleasant surprise. I loved it.**

**I hope you didn't grow to hate me too much during the wait.**

* * *

_"Innocence, once lost, can never be regained._

_Darkness, once gazed upon, can never be lost." _

_-John Milton_

* * *

Seraphina awoke feeling heavy and exhausted; her head pounding, her mouth dry, her muscles cramped and shaky. She managed to crack her eyes open and immediately winced at the brightness of her surroundings, the light piercing and invasive. She groaned softly as the multitude of sensations nearly overwhelmed her, and she brought a hand to cover her face.

She felt another hand – her brother's; she could tell – brushing the hair away from her neck and moving down to her shoulders, gently squeezing and easing some of the tension that resided there.

"How are you feeling?" Jonathan asked. Everything about him was soft – his voice, his touch – as if he knew how sensitive Seraphina's senses were.

"Not well," she answered him.

She pried her eyelids apart once more and found that the cellar actually wasn't bright at all – only a single beam of light shone in from the light in the stairwell, and the rest of the space was shrouded in silent darkness. As she took in her surroundings, she saw that she was still lying on the floor with her brother, and they were alone.

"Do you think you can stand?" Jonathan asked. "Or do you want to stay here?"

Seraphina wasn't sure if she would be able to stand, but she certainly didn't want to remain in the dark cellar; it was cold and dark and smelled like pain and sickness. She pushed herself up on her forearms and swayed as her head spun, but Jonathan sat up with her and placed a steadying hand on her back. With his help, she was able to rise unsteadily to her feet, leaning into his arm behind her and clutching his other hand.

Jonathan was uncharacteristically patient as Seraphina hobbled across the cold stone floor while using him for support, even occasionally giving her a comforting squeeze or an encouraging nudge. His patience didn't last very long though; they reached the staircase up to the rest of the manor, and Seraphina stopped to gather her strength for the dreaded journey up the stairs – but before she could begin, Jonathan swept her into his arms and bounded up the stairs with easy strides.

Jonathan wordlessly carried her into the music room and set her gently on the soft rug near the piano, as though they were going to carry on from where they had left off. But things were different, and both of them felt it. There was a weight to the air that hadn't been there before, a heaviness to their hearts that had been steadily increasing as the hours dragged on. And there was also a bittersweet sensation; a deep connection between them that was almost tangible, stretching and contracting when they moved closer or apart – a connection that neither had become aware of until its existence had been threatened by the dark, looming prospect of being separated.

_Separated. _It seemed a strange word to Seraphina then. Her father had threatened them with the idea before, when they had been children and just beginning to grow close. Jonathan would do something morbid or cruel, or Seraphina would do something reckless and disobedient, and their father would yell and the veins in his neck would pulse, and he would _separate _them when he ran out of options. The separation was insignificant at first – they were fine spending time apart. As they grew older, and henceforth closer, it became slightly uncomfortable. But within the past few years, being apart had become so painful that neither would abide by the punishment, and they would end up in their shed in the woods together. Their father would find them and yell and the veins in his neck would pulse, but he knew there was nothing he could do anymore, and eventually his anger would subside into exasperation and resignation once more.

But the idea of being _separated _had never been this permanent, or this terrifying. As she pondered her impending departure from the manor, Seraphina felt a confusing mixture of emotions. She wondered if she was excited to go to New York or if she was just excited to leave the quiet, empty plains surrounding the manor, full of darkness and secrets and monsters. She wondered if she was anxious to learn more about Jocelyn or just anxious to escape her father, if only for a little while.

But most of all, Seraphina wondered if she was terrified of how she would manage without her brother, or if she was terrified of how _he _would manage without _her. _Because, though she loved her brother, Seraphina had always felt that he needed her more than she needed him; that while he was utterly lost without her, she had, from the long hours she spent exploring her mind and its dark contents, at least a small semblance of who she was.

Jonathan hated that about her – that sometimes she wanted to do things alone, that sometimes she was different from him. Even as his abuse faded through the years as he grew to care for her more and more, Seraphina's independence had never ceased to terrify him, and even still it could send him into fits of rage and violence. Even then – sitting in the music room and pondering the premature feeling of loss and emptiness, already in her heart though she hadn't left him yet – Seraphina could see bruises on her pale skin that her brother had put there.

She looked up to find her brother staring at her, his dark eyes deep and sad. She wished there was something she could say, but there wasn't. There was nothing either of them could do. And there was nothing they could say. So they sat in silence and looked at each other, each of them attempting to comprehend this foreign, hated idea – _separation. _Seraphina decided it was an ugly word.

"Seraphina," a deep voice boomed from the doorway, startling them and commanding their attention. "I need to speak with you about the mission you'll be completing."

Jonathan squeezed her hand, and she turned to her father with the intention of asking if Jonathan could come to. But the expression on her father's face answered her unasked question and left no room for doubt – _no, _Jonathan couldn't come; _yes, _it had to be right now; _no,_ she would not enjoy the consequences if she didn't obey without question.

Jonathan knew their father as well as she did, so with a resigned sigh he released her hand and gave her a soft push in their father's direction. She complied with their combined prompting, feeling unpleasantly like a small child obeying smarter, more capable adults. It was a feeling they instilled within her often, and though it never became less irritating, she knew better than to question it. So with a sullen, dejected resentment, she approached her father with her hands in her pockets, her hair long and untamed the way he hated it, her pace slow enough to irritate him in a subtle, itching way.

She saw the irritation flash in his dark eyes, and she could almost feel the stinging pain that would follow. Her spine tingled and her stomach lurched, but the blow never came – her father clenched his jaw and stepped aside to allow her to pass him into the hallway. Seraphina was inexplicably disappointed – she would have welcomed pain if it came joined with the knowledge that her effort had not gone unnoticed.

Seraphina heard Jonathan leave the music room once she and their father began making their way towards the study, and she wondered what he was going to do. Whatever it was, she was certain she would rather be doing it with him instead of doing what she was – entering the dark, ominous study with her father's dark, ominous presence behind her, blocking any escape she might try to initiate; both she and Jonathan were known to make a run for it when the prospect of a conversation seemed particularly grim.

"Have a seat, Seraphina," her father moved around her to occupy his usual seat behind the large mahogany desk; his broad-shouldered, muscular form instantly assuming a professional, imposing demeanor.

Seraphina lowered herself gingerly into the considerably less comfortable chair across from her father's, her body still sore and shaky from the illness that had wreaked havoc on her body just hours before. Neither she nor her father said anything for a long while – they only looked at each other.

"Have you recovered sufficiently, Seraphina?" her father asked, breaking the uncomfortable silence by referring to her time spent in the cellar in the throes of blood poisoning.

"I suppose," she murmured, looking down as she twirled the ends of her crimson hair. She felt weak and exhausted, and she felt as though her heart was pumping sand and glass instead of blood through her veins with every beat. But if she told her father that, he would punish her for her self-pity and it would ruin their last day together. Not that Seraphina was the sentimental type, but she held her tongue nonetheless.

Her father hummed softly as he scribbled notes into his black notebook, and she saw that he had written entire pages of notes about the ordeal he had put her through. Sardonically, she hoped he was pleased with himself for making discoveries on such pressing issues.

"I'm glad," her father stated matter-of-factly, in a tone that certainly didn't express much gladness. "Let's begin, shall we?"

Seraphina only nodded, still finding herself unable to look at him. Nothing felt real – her impending mission, her separation from her brother. Every time she tried to come to terms with it, gloom and her customary emotional detachment gripped her mind with claws and dragged it back into numbness and confusion. She was growing frustrated. It felt strange, not feeling anything, and she was so absorbed with nothingness that she could barely hear her father speak as he continued with his instructions.

"You'll leave for New York first thing tomorrow morning," he was saying. Have your things packed tonight. I've arranged for you to stay in an apartment; the rent is already paid for."

"An apartment?" Seraphina interrupted. "Isn't it customary for Shadowhunters to stay in an Institute when they're traveling?"

"Yes, it is," Valentine agreed, "But I don't want you staying in the New York Institute. I would rather you avoid the Shadowhunters there entirely, in fact. By all means, be polite if they see you about and approach you, but don't seek them out. Maintain your distance." Seraphina smirked and her father continued, "Not that I need to worry about that with you." Seraphina was too introverted and aloof to develop emotional attachments with people who weren't her brother; a trait she was sure her father's parenting style had something to do with.

"And as for the mission itself, well," Valentine stopped to clear his throat, "I'm not sure what you and Jonathan overheard when you eavesdropped on my conversation with Pangborn and Blackwell, so I suppose I'll just start from the beginning."

"Pangborn and Blackwell found your mother living in a flat in New York – Brooklyn, to be more precise. It seems she's been living as a mundane since she-" he shifted "- left Idris.

If Seraphina had had the energy to do so, she would have corrected her father and said that it wasn't _Idris_ Jocelyn had left, but _them_ – but her mind was still foggy, and exhaustion had always tended to augment her instinct to avoid pain, so she said nothing.

"Now, this is the important part," her father continued, and Seraphina was glad that she hadn't interrupted him. "You and Jonathan are well aware of the plans I've been putting into place these last few years."

The siblings were, indeed, aware of said plans; acquire the Mortal Instruments, overthrow the Clave, eradicate Downworlders, establish order and justice – fairly typical plans for any aspiring dictator, with some minor deviations of the supernatural variety.

"You're mother – "

Before he could finish, Seraphina lost her patience. "Would you mind calling her Jocelyn instead?" she snapped. She looked at him for the first time, and he was looking at her with a surprised expression.

Her father paused, and for a moment Seraphina thought he looked quite sad. He lowered his eyes and conceded, "Alright," before continuing.

"Jocelyn has the Mortal Cup."

"You're certain?" Seraphina inquired, slightly surprised. Stealing the Mortal Cup would have taken a significant deal of ambition and determination, and if there was one characteristic Seraphina had never applied to her mother, it was bravery.

"Yes, I'm sure." Her father nodded grimly.

"So…" Seraphina ventured. "You want me to get it from her?"

"Yes, that will be your main objective in New York. I know that if I went myself… well, I'm not sure Jocelyn would be very receptive to my presence." Her father looked sad again, and Seraphina felt her rebellion disintegrating into her growing sympathy and curiosity.

"But… why does that matter?" she asked. "If she's glad to see you or not, I mean. If we're just stealing the Mortal Cup, she wouldn't even have to know you were there."

Her father nodded slightly and explained, "I said we know she has the Mortal Cup. Not that I know where she's keeping it. It's going to take more than petty thievery to get it back. And, Seraphina…" He trailed off, and a deep sigh escaped him; a small addition to the misery and melancholy that had already shrouded the manor in a gray cloud. "Even if I did know where she was keeping it," he continued softly, "I wouldn't just want to steal it from her."

Her father wasn't one to verbalize his emotions, but Seraphina caught on quickly. And the realization of what he meant sent red, heated anger surging through her blood. A part of her was happy that she could feel something again, anything, and so she latched onto her anger and didn't mind that it would get her into trouble. She would rather stay angry than lapse back into nothingness.

"You mean you want her back?" she demanded. "You want her to come back here, to be with you?"

"To be with _us_, Seraphina," and now her father was angry, too. "We're a family; I thought I raised you to value that. You certainly exhibit enough familial loyalty to your brother, of all people."

"That's exactly it," Seraphina protested indignantly, knowing that she was digging herself a hole but being too dependent on her anger to let it go. "Being a family means being _loyal_."

"I assure you, Seraphina, you don't understand what happened between your mother and me. You don't know anything about our marriage, and you don't know anything about her." Her father wanted to stop talking about it, she could tell. And, she had to admit, he was right. She didn't know anything about her mother.

Seraphina knew this, and it was the reason she had always used to convince herself that she didn't mind not having a mother, that it didn't hurt to know that her and her brother had been abandoned. But in that moment, for the first time, Seraphina realized that she did care. She realized that a small part of her constant sadness belonged to the brokenness of her family; was tethered to the knowledge that, as if it didn't hurt enough to be tortured by her father, another parent couldn't be bothered to stay at all. And then, frustrated with the portion of her piercing sadness that had suddenly found clarity and purpose – and all for a woman she had never even met – Seraphina looked her father in the eyes and uttered words she had never dared say to his face. "That woman isn't my mother any more than she's your wife."

"Don't you dare, Seraphina." His voice was dangerously low, and Seraphina shrunk into herself. She had expected her father to be angry, and she had expected the stinging, sick pain of his anger. But she hadn't expected this – her father stared at her with anger more frightening in its calmness than rage could ever be, and underneath that darkness, her father was looking at her as though she had broken his heart.

But that hadn't been Seraphina had it? It was Jocelyn who had broken his heart. And the aftermath of that betrayal was now being suffered by her children through cruel punishment and crueler tortures; through bitter sadness and an eternal, homeless grief for the peace and happiness they would never know. Their father, on occasions when he felt particularly rancorous, would call Jocelyn a traitor. But Jocelyn's betrayal wasn't something Seraphina had ever resented – in fact, at times she felt she understood it – the shadowy guilt that must have plagued her as she lay in her bed at night, thinking about all her husband had done and all he planned to do; the worry that perhaps the things that were happening weren't…_right_. No, it wasn't Jocelyn's betrayal that made her daughter hate her; it was Jocelyn's cowardice that set Seraphina's blood alight with hatred.

Jocelyn had been a coward. She had allowed her husband to turn their unborn children into twisted experiments, and she had allowed his genocidal passions to fester and upsurge. And later, when she had realized her mistake, she had been too selfish and afraid to save anyone but herself – she had left her children behind in a broken home with a broken man, and now they were broken too, wandering around in hollow resentment and consumed by an abstract hatred directed towards nothing in particular and everything in existence, both at the same time.

Seraphina didn't regret what she had said about her mother, because in her mind it was true. But she did regret saying it in front of her father – Jonathan would have been a more logical choice, especially since he hated Jocelyn even more than she did – because the look in her father's eyes was sad, which made Seraphina feel very guilty; and furious, which made Seraphina feel very afraid.

"You know much less than you think you do," her father's voice shook with anger, "and if I were you, I would focus less on contemplation and more on following the orders I'm giving you. Regardless of how you feel about your mother – and I assure you, both you and your brother have made that quite clear – we have a mission to complete, and I am trusting you with an integral part of that mission. I sincerely hope I have not misplaced this trust."

"You haven't," Seraphina instilled as much conviction into her voice as she could.

"But?" her father demanded, his perceptivity alerting him to an undertone in his daughter's voice.

Cursing her father's keen ear and wishing she could be more enigmatic, Seraphina found the worry that had plagued her for the past few hours tumbling past her lips in a desperate plea. "I only wish Jonathan and I didn't need to be separated. I just… I worry about him. And we've always been better when we can work together on things, and-"

But her father interrupted her, "You're going to New York alone, Seraphina. And your brother is staying here with me."

A twinge and a pulling sensation alerted Seraphina to something – a dark presence hovering outside the door. It was her brother, she knew, came to hear what their father hadn't wanted him to. Seraphina almost smiled; disobeying their father, eavesdropping, breaking rules and direct orders – those were all things _she_ would do. But if she smiled her father would become suspicious, so she frowned instead and forced petulance into her voice as she protested, "But why? What harm would it do?"

"Seraphina," their father groaned tiredly, "I've thought about this all quite extensively, I assure you. Jonathan accompanying you would not be… beneficial. Not only will the mission run more smoothly if you're alone –"

"But _why_?" she demanded, frustrated with his evasiveness.

"Seraphina," her father sighed again. Seraphina had never heard him sigh so much. She figured he must be tired. "I never… wanted you or your brother to know this. I suppose though, it might be better if I told you before you heard it from your mother…" he trailed off, and it seemed to Seraphina as though he wasn't really speaking to her anymore.

"I want you to go alone" her father declared more assuredly than before, "because your mother will be more responsive if you do. Your mother was very disillusioned with me when she left and, all things considered, I suppose I can't blame her too much for that. If I went to New York, she would see it as an… attack. She would react drastically, perhaps even violently. And it would be entirely counterproductive to what we hope to accomplish.

"And, as for your brother's role in all of this… I've never spoken to you two about this. You know why you are the way you are, of course. I injected the blood into your veins before you were born, and, luckily, it produced results far more desirable than I had even hoped for. But your mother didn't see it that way, unfortunately. And it was Jonathan's nature she had a particularly difficult time adjusting to."

Seraphina began to grow worried. She could still feel her brother's presence outside the door, and she had an ominous feeling that what her father was about to say wasn't something Jonathan would want to hear. She could already feel her brother's emotions swelling like the clouds of a summer storm, flush with darkness and set to burst with torrential violence. She prayed he would leave before he heard it, pushed with her mind and all of her heart for him to leave and wait for her somewhere. She felt him feel her, felt her desperation prod the sides of his despair, but then she was pushed back. He ignored her, blocked her from his mind and heart with a cold wall of stubbornness and stayed by the door. Despaired, Seraphina sank into her chair and willed her father to stop, stop, stop talking. She almost whispered it. _Stop, stop, stop, both of you._

But her father didn't listen and neither did her brother. Her father kept speaking, and her brother kept listening. Seraphina sat in the middle, small and powerless and dreading the outburst of a dark summer storm.

"I think I've mentioned before that your mother didn't know what I was doing to the two of you. When Jonathan was born, she sensed that something was different about him. The first time she looked in his eyes, she screamed. She screamed and sobbed and cursed me until she lost consciousness, and even when she had calmed down she refused to hold him. She told me that he was a monster, that I had ruined him. And until the day she left, she never held him. Barely looked at him… wouldn't even say his name. She believed that… that I had murdered the son we would have had, and that Jonathan was the monster who had taken over his being. I tried to reason with her, but she wouldn't listen. She never forgave me.

"Jonathan going to New York would be even worse than me going. To your mother, your brother represents things she would rather forget, I think. He represents the reasons she betrayed me; everything she found wrong about our cause. He represents, in her mind, a line crossed – the line between experimentation and cruelty, righteousness and madness. In her eyes, he's an abomination."

Seraphina had remained focused on her brother throughout her father's explanation, and so she felt it happen. She felt a twinge, a snap, and then only silence; his darkness pierced through by a spear of hurt – her brother condemned it as a vulnerable, disgusting emotion dripping weakness and filth, and then he planted a seed inside of it; a seed of hate and malice that would fester and thrive on the blackness until it had overpowered the pain completely. And then he smothered his own mind with stoic resolve and then nothingness remained; the kind of nothingness that wasn't the absence of something but a presence itself. And then he stood and walked away from the door, and Seraphina wanted to run after him and hold him and tell him that their mother had been wrong, but she couldn't. She could only sit in silence, falling further and further into her own darkness as her father continued.

"With you, though it was different. I realized, when I created Jonathan, that perhaps I had gone too far. He would be strong, yes, but he was very troubled, even as a child. I never possessed the abhorrence towards him that your mother did, but I did sense a darkness in him, one that I predicted would strongly alter his emotions and interactions with people. I'll confess I was worried, but not enough to alter my plans for training him. And that's when I got the idea for you.

"A child with angel blood would be as powerful as one with demon's blood, I believed, and I was right. Throughout the years, I've concluded that you and your brother are, for the most part, equally matched. Have I ever told you that? At any rate, I knew your mother was pregnant before she did. I could sense it, somehow. I even dreamt about it. And so I acquired the angel blood, transformed some of it into a powder that I put in her food, and kept the rest in a liquid form that I injected into her when she was sleeping. I knew that if she discovered what I was doing, she would never forgive me. But I had to try again, and I couldn't monitor the Herondale girl closely enough to rest all of my hopes on her child alone. I needed another child, my _own _child, and so I created you in secret.

"When you were born, I knew my efforts had been successful. You weren't a normal child, by any means. But you laughed, and you enjoyed being held, and I believe you were a large comfort to your mother. She finally had the child she had dreamed of – one that needed attention and craved affection. And I'm sure your red hair and green eyes didn't hurt her partialness to you either. She was happier, and so was I. You were everything I had hoped you would be, and I knew that I had succeeded in creating the warriors I would need.

"Meanwhile, the Herondale boy had been born. His idiot father had gone off and gotten himself killed, and then his impotent mother slit her wrists in the bathroom. It was an utter catastrophe, and I exhausted myself running around trying to set things right. In hindsight, I should have let the boy die with his mother; I had what I needed. But I couldn't bring myself to let my work go to waste, so I took him and hid him and tried to raise him too.

"Me having to deal with that left much of the responsibility for you to your mother, but I wasn't worried. She did love you, I think. She really did. But then, things changed. You could speak far sooner than you should have been able to. You needed solid food sooner, you could walk sooner. And your mother grew suspicious. She eventually realized I must have done something to you too, and when she confronted me about it I was too exasperated to lie. You were a perfectly fine child, but she was too set in her preconceived notions of morality to accept you for what you were –superior, strong, a miracle of science and innovation. It wasn't long before she wouldn't take care of you, either. Not long after that, she betrayed the Circle.

"I should have seen it coming – her sneaking off in the night, her evasiveness, her growing aloofness. But I didn't. I was blinded by the memory of the love we had once shared, and I lost everything because of it." Her father sighed, the first interruption that had occurred in quite some time. "I'm glad I don't have to worry about that with you or Jonathan, Seraphina." Seraphina knew what he meant by _that _– love. He had taught them better than that.

Seraphina sat in silence for a long time, confused and miserable and, for the first time in years, feeling the sting of unshed tears behind her eyes. But she wouldn't cry; she never did. She didn't know what to say. In his explanation, her father had spoken more than he ever had before, at least to her. He had said both good things and horrible things – she had never imagined he was so proud of his children, but she had never imagined her mother hating her, either.

And as she thought about it, she realized her father _wasn't _proud of them – he was proud of himself. Proud that he had accomplished what no one else had, that he had created perfect, unrivaled warriors to champion his cause. To him, Jonathan and Seraphina – their identities, their emotions, their minds – were faint, abstract ideas that paled and withered in the shadow of _what _they were. He had never been concerned with _who _they were, and he never would be. Seraphina felt even more miserable, but she was too aware of her own helplessness to act on it. Her misery meant nothing to anyone but her. There was nothing she could do except… _feel_it. So that's all she did. That's all she would ever do, until the day she lost herself enough to not feel anything at all.

Resigned to her fate, she returned to her sentience and faced her father. He wasn't looking at her.

"What am I supposed to do then?" she asked, her voice as enervated and hopeless as she felt. Her father didn't notice her tone, but he snapped his attention to her, the weight of his gaze settling back onto her skin. She shuddered. "You said that, by the time she left, Jocelyn hated me as much as she hated Jonathan. What can I do that either of you can't?"

"She never hated you as much as she hated Jonathan and me," her father argued. "I maintain my position that you have the best chance, Seraphina. Now that you're a young adult, you should be able to aptly display your relative normalcy, given your mother's expectations. Neither you nor your brother is anywhere near the abomination your mother expected you to end up as. True, Jonathan has his difficulties with human emotions. But he can function just fine, I think. Especially around you."

"Then wouldn't it help for both of us to go?" Seraphina asked desperately. She knew she was being ridiculous and childish; her father had said no countless times. But she didn't want to leave her brother alone, especially not with their father. Their father was cruel and, as Seraphina had just realized, utterly unconcerned with how miserable or twisted or ruined he made them. As long as they maintained their strength and obedience, he was satisfied.

And the violence that such obedience required would destroy Jonathan if Seraphina wasn't there. Her constant efforts only served to keep him on the very brink of humanity, fit to plunge into chaos at her slightest shortcoming. And if she was gone, nothing would be there to save him from that fate. Their father's violence would only make it happen sooner, and then Jonathan would be alone and lost and abandoned in his own darkness – the darkness their father had put there without shame or regret – and Seraphina would have lost him forever.

"You said yourself that neither of us is as horrible as she thought we would be," Seraphina continued with more emotion in her voice than she ever spoke with. "If we both went, she would see that both of us are fine. Besides, if things work out the way you want, she would have to see Jonathan eventually, right?"

Her father looked at her, suspicious and searching once more. Exasperated and irrational, she wished he would stop. Stop, stop, stop looking at her. "It isn't just for the sake of the mission that I'm separating you," he finally explained, wary. "I believe some time apart will be good for you."

Seraphina had halted her protests, but her father seemed intent on continuing, like his words had been imprisoned and were clamoring for freedom all at once.

"As you may have noticed, I've grown… concerned with your relationship in the past years. I'm worried you're too dependent on each other. Well, perhaps not you, but Jonathan certainly relies on you a great deal. I created you with the intention of you being a team, a sort of… balance for each other. His darkness and your light, his raw power and your cunning and agility. I expected your differences to work well together as far as battle and leadership went, but… you simply shouldn't be able to coexist this well with each other. It doesn't make sense. It isn't… natural. And it most certainly isn't healthy."

Seraphina wasn't used to hearing her father speak this way; the pauses, the hesitation, the uncertainty. It was in his nature to be self-assured, fluent, and persuasive.

"What do you mean it isn't healthy?" Seraphina demanded scathingly.

"The way you treat each other… The constant fighting, the abuse, the manipulation; all you ever do is hurt each other. That's not how a… typical family treats each other."

"Well, we aren't exactly a typical family, are we? You made sure of that." Seraphina was angry, and growing angrier by the second. Her father had the nerve to criticize their relationship, but he didn't understand it – at least, not as well as he thought he did. He had even admitted in his damned black book that he had no idea what the hell was happening between them. And if anything, he had been the one to create their relationship in the first place – first with the experiments that had stripped them of humanity before they were born, and then with the cruelty that soon disposed of their happiness and innocence in the same fashion.

Besides, Seraphina and Jonathan did more than hurt each other. They also understood each other. And that was something neither of them would ever find with anyone else – another fate their father had sealed when he had turned his unborn children into prototypes for flawless warrior avengers.

Her father hadn't responded to her yet. Once again, he was merely looking at her, searching and contemplative. Seraphina decided she didn't like being looked at. She didn't like the way peoples' gazes felt sliding across her skin, the way they looked at her as if she were a question or a puzzle. Seraphina knew that she was strange – she might even be insane. But she didn't want people to know that, and she most certainly didn't want them to understand her. Seraphina was more comfortable living in darkness as an unanswerable question that gave people an itching feeling in the back of their minds; the kind of itch that bothers you to no end until you finally resign to your ignorance and allow it to live in that darkness in peace. No, Seraphina didn't like being looked at, and it was a trait she probably would have noticed sooner had she actually been around people growing up.

Trying to distract her father from looking at her like that any longer, Seraphina continued with biting malice, "And you're certainly one to talk about hurting your family."

Her tactic worked; her father snapped out of his thoughtfulness in surprise and his pondering gaze transformed into an enraged one. "What do you mean by that?"

"I think you know what I mean," Seraphina responded, and she was right; he did.

"The pain that you and Jonathan have suffered – that we have _all _suffered – is a necessary evil, Seraphina," her father explained after an infuriated silence. Seraphina scoffed, and his anger intensified.

"Seraphina, I don't think you understand how utterly _important _this is. I need you to take this mission seriously. I could go simply go myself, yes, but I'm trusting you to do this for me. This is about more than just our family. Don't you understand that? This… our plans, they will change the world. And the world _needs_ to be changed."

Seraphina felt a prickle of doubt pierce her gloomy dejection. And she admitted to herself that, prior to her father's words, she _hadn't _considered the importance of the mission outside of what it meant for their family.

"Don't you understand?" Her father demanded, and his voice quivered with intensity, passion, longing. "Our world has been overcome by darkness. Every day, every moment; light, beauty – humanity itself – are consumed by darkness, smothered and ruined by the filth and despair of the oldest evil our world has ever known. And meanwhile, the Clave sits idly by; content to watch the world burn at their feet from the pedestal they have built for themselves – built through the corruption and defilement of everything our race once stood for."

He stopped before her and met her gaze for the first time, his dark eyes animated by his passion and glowing with conviction. Standing there, illuminated by the sunlight behind him, dark eyes flashing and igniting with intensity and passion, she thought that he was the most magnificent thing she had ever seen. As she continued to gaze at him, completely enraptured by his faith, she was swept away by his vision for the world. And suddenly, she was torn away from the bitterness that weeks of misery and agony had instilled within her and reminded of why, for as long as she could remember, she would do anything for her father.

"Our race," he continued, his voice quieter yet somehow more intense, "is the only thing that stands between this world and a realm of unending darkness and misery. We are not gods. We are not leaders. We are warriors. Soldiers. Protectors. We are the light that has brought this world forth into decades of prosperity and peace, free from the oppression of evil.

"We are not meant to indulge in mundane luxuries. We are not meant to spend our lives seeking happiness. We're meant to be selfless, brave, and uncorrupt. We were built for hardship and sacrifice. Our happiness and freedom is the sacrifice we have offered to fulfill our duty – to protect humanity from the dark forces that only we can defeat.

"To see you in pain…" He paused, and as his dark eyes met hers, she saw something in his eyes that she had only seen on rare occasions throughout her life – a deep, aching sadness, a fathomless sense of grief and mourning. She was reminded, suddenly, of a broken sob interrupting the silence of a dark room, but she didn't know where the memory had come from.

"And worse," he managed to continue, though his voice was hoarse, "to know that I have been the cause of that pain… It fills me with more remorse than I could ever express to you. But it is a necessary evil. You are the answer, Seraphina. A protector among protectors. A light amidst a vast darkness. I created you with a higher purpose, and your purpose has yet to be fulfilled.

"It is in our nature to suffer." By now, he had managed to suppress the emotion in his voice, and once again his deep voice was calm and powerful. "That is something your mother never managed to understand… But you understand that, don't you." It wasn't a question. "That's why you're so brave, so strong – the perfect warrior. As I created you to be."

His words sent a warm feeling of pride surging through her veins, trailed by a twinge of mockery and cynicism; there were many words she could use to describe herself, but perfect had never been one of them.

Seraphina didn't say anything. Her father seemed surprised at himself for being so forthcoming, and she was too. But suddenly, she wasn't dreading her mission to New York. A part of her, awakened and rejuvenated by her father's passion, was prepared to relish in the opportunity to prove herself to her father. To prove that she was capable as he seemed to think she was.

Something in her eyes must have revealed her newfound motivation, because her father appeared to relax slightly where he sat before her. Seraphina wasn't happy about having to chase down her fickle, traitorous, and – apparently – thieving mother, but she would do it. To please her father, and if only to get back to her brother sooner, she would do what she had to do for her father and then return home.

It was only with that resolution that she realized that before, a part of her had been prepared to use the opportunity to rebel against her father, to ruin the mission as a form of passive aggressive revenge. And suddenly her father's actions made sense – his experiment had made her weak, and now she realized he had probably hoped that her exhaustion would make her less likely to act out; his cruelty of late had been nearly unbearable, and now she realized he had been attempting to instill whatever fear-driven obedience within her he could before she left. She wondered if he would still think that was what had convinced her to behave herself. She almost laughed at him; those tactics had never worked on her, and they never would. But, she figured, the less he knew her, the better. She liked things that way.

It had been silent in her father's study for a long while as Seraphina had mulled things over, and now that she had sorted through her thoughts she sat in uncertainty as to whether she was dismissed or not.

"One more thing, Seraphina, before you go," her father said, answering her unasked question. "You're mother… she isn't the only person Pangborn and Blackwell found in New York."

"What?" Seraphina was confused; did they even know anyone else? Not anyone who didn't live in Idris, she was almost certain.

"Jonathan lives in New York as well." At Seraphina's blank stare, he continued, "The _other _Jonathan."

With a start, Seraphina realized who he meant and felt her mind rush into a flurry of commotion.

_"I tried to kill him," Jonathan whispered, bruises mottling the paleness of his skin and red marks around his neck. _

Jonathan, for a reason he had never explained to Seraphina, hated the other Jonathan and always had. Seraphina knew he had hated her the same way once, but then something had changed – though she didn't know what – and by the time she was eight they had become inseparable.

_"Why doesn't he live with us, Dad?" Seraphina asked, but a cold glare and a stinging blow assured that it was the last time she would ask._

Seraphina had never seen the other boy, and their father rarely mentioned him – even when he had lived a short distance away, he had existed in an abstract way; as a name scrawled only once across a page of their father's notes, a vague face that Seraphina had used her imagination to create, a shadowed idea of a boy.

_"He doesn't live there anymore," their father declared definitively, but he wouldn't tell them why._

Jonathan had always wanted to kill the other Jonathan, but Seraphina and Jonathan had soon missed his presence once their father had sent him away. "It's because we're better, and Father didn't need him anymore," Jonathan had declared. But with the other Jonathan gone, the siblings were no longer left alone in the manor for days at a time. Suddenly, they were given all of their father's attention, uninterruptedly – and as harsh training and even harsher punishments would soon make them realize, that was far from a good thing.

Her memories intermingled with reality, plunging her into confusion, and soon it was all she could do to maintain some semblance of focus on her father's words.

"Seraphina," he began, his tone adopting a firm, dangerous tone that Seraphina knew better than to dismiss; she forced her attention back to him, banishing her memories into the back of her mind. "I do not want you to speak to that boy."

It seemed as though he expected her to argue, but in actuality the order came as a relief; for a moment, Seraphina had worried that her father would ask her to spy on the other Jonathan, too, and she hadn't been at all excited about the prospect.

"I won't," she assured him obediently, but she hesitantly continued, wondering how far she could push her luck. "Is New York where you sent him?" she ventured, eager to absorb any information that her father would provide.

Her father sighed, but he didn't appear angry – at least, not yet. "Yes," he said wearily, "that's where I sent him. Or, at least, where I assumed he would end up. The Lightwoods manage the Institute there, and I knew they would offer to care for the boy."

Seraphina was confused then; surely their father hadn't made his presence known to the Lightwoods, of all people, but why else would they offer to care for the boy he had once intended to raise himself?

Reading her expression, her father grudgingly provided, "They didn't – don't – know it was me who was raising him. In fact, he doesn't either."

She wondered if she had heard him correctly. How could her father have managed to raise a child with another man's name? And whose name had it been? But her father made it clear he wouldn't be giving her any more than that with a small shake of his head and an elegant wave of his hand. Obeying his dismissive gesture, she rose from the chair before his desk and exited his study, closing the door behind her and pondering all she had learned from her father.

She walked through the halls of the manor with the intention of returning to her room; she needed to pack, and some time alone to think would do her some good. Suddenly though, she turned a corner and found herself thrown against the wall, pinned against it by a lean, powerful form. Normally, she would have snapped at her brother for the action, but she was only relieved that he wasn't hiding from her.

"Jonathan… She was wrong. Jocelyn, I mean. She didn't know you, she couldn't have," she attempted to console him. She rested a hand on his cheek. "Not like I do."

He tore his face away from her hand, but he was trembling as he did it and she knew that he wasn't really angry with her, just angry. "I don't care about that," he said softly. "I hate her. Even before I knew how she felt, I hated her. I don't care what she thinks."

"That's good," Seraphina whispered, but she didn't believe him. She had felt his hurt, and she had felt his frightening response to it. She hoped he would let her help him before she left.

"That doesn't matter now, anyway." Jonathan's voice shook and his hands trembled, and he grasped his sister's frail shoulders in his large hands, pulling her closer to him. "He's really doing it," Jonathan said in a despaired groan. "He's really sending you away."

"Yes," Seraphina whispered, because there was nothing else to say.

"What if we both left?" Jonathan pleaded. "What if we left tonight, together, and went somewhere where he wouldn't find us?"

A few hours ago, Seraphina would have leaped at the chance to escape their father. But she couldn't anymore, not after what her father had said to her. "Jonathan," she began, with sad eyes and a cold feeling of dread coiling through her spine. "I don't _want _to leave you, but… I think he's right. About me needing to do this, I mean. Sometimes… other things are more important than what we want."

Jonathan's lip curled in disgust, and a disbelieving anger sparked in his black eyes. "You sound just like him." His grip on her shoulders tightened, and Seraphina became painfully aware of how delicate her bones felt in his unrelenting hold.

"This won't last forever," Seraphina attempted to comfort him and felt her success in the loosening of his grip. "I'll be back, I promise. I'll finish this as soon as I can, and I'll come back to you."

Her words sounded trivial, even to her, but she couldn't think of anything else to say. The terrified despair in her brother's eyes was too wild to be comforted with anything less than absolute conviction and immediate absolution, and it wasn't in her power to offer him those things.

"Did he tell you how long you would be there?" Jonathan asked.

"No. Just… until I do what I need to, I guess. And I promise, I'll do it as quickly as I can."

He smiled and ran his thumb across her jaw. It was a lingering, possessive gesture. It made her uncomfortable. "I know you will. Did he say anything interesting? I left after he… started talking about me." Jonathan looked sad again, and Seraphina winced in sympathy as she remembered the things their father had said.

"Yes, actually," she replied, hoping the information would distract him from his hurt. "The _other _Jonathan lives in New York, too."

Something dark and feral ignited in his expression, and Seraphina felt herself stiffen in anticipation. "_What?" _he snarled.

"Oh, don't get so upset." Seraphina exasperatedly attempted to reassure him. "I'm sure I won't even see him. I have no intention to, at least."

But Jonathan didn't seem appeased, and his grip on her shoulders tightened once more. "Don't speak to him, Seraphina."

It was the same order her father had issued, and the same rule she had already agreed to. But being ordered around for the second time didn't sit well with her, and she found her indignation expressing itself before she could subdue it. "I _won't_," she snapped, "but only because I don't _want_ to. And if for any reason I changed my mind, it wouldn't be your business." Jonathan bared his teeth, and Seraphina worried he would bite her – it was one of his darker habits – but she pressed on. "Why do you hate him so much, anyway?"

"I don't know," Jonathan muttered irritably. "I just do. I always have."

"Well maybe you should entertain the idea of being cordial towards him, if by any chance we meet him someday. He might have more in common with us than you think."

Jonathan laughed darkly. "No one has anything in common with _us._"

"There's no need for arrogance, Jonathan," Seraphina reprimanded. She attempted to disengage herself from his now-painful grip, but he only pulled her closer to him.

"I mean it, Seraphina. I don't want you anywhere near him."

Seraphina felt her indignation spark into anger, and if she were stronger she would have shoved her brother away. "I have bigger things to worry about than your petty, baseless concerns," she informed him icily. "Now if you'll excuse me, I need to pack. I leave tomorrow, you know."

Jonathan pushed her back against the wall, her head slamming painfully into the wood of the doorway behind her. "Just remember while you're there, little sister," he growled. "You belong to _me_."

She rolled her eyes and twisted out of his grasp with a grimace, leaping away in a swish of crimson hair. He tried to grab her, but she danced out of his arm's reach and away from him into the darkness of the manor, leaving a disgruntled snarl echoing in her wake.

* * *

Seraphina threw another black sweater onto the pile of black clothes she had already gathered, and wondered how she had never realized that she always wore black. As she packed her things for New York, she had realized that the only items in her closet that weren't black were dresses and gowns, with the exception of a few shirts and blouses that she never wore. Clothes had never mattered much to Seraphina, though – having grown up without any female guidance, the most she knew about fashion was not to wear brown and black together – so she blindly grabbed a handful of the more colorful clothes out of obligation, threw them near the others, and moved on to less tedious tasks.

Taking far greater care with her weapons than she had with her clothes, Seraphina gathered her favorite weapons – an impeccably crafted bow, five seraph blades, and a dagger that her father had given to her for her seventh birthday. She turned the last item over in her hands, watching the light flash across the silver blade and glint off of the emerald that lay embedded in the hilt. As she gazed at it, the dim lighting of her room illuminated a pattern – a pair of gossamer wings carved into the cool metal. _Fairchild._

Seraphina had known that the dagger was her mother's when her father had given it to her. It wasn't until now that it bothered her. Gazing at the engraved fairy wings on the dagger that no longer felt like hers, Seraphina was reminded of a different carving on a different dagger. She entered her closet again, this time moving all the way to the back to retrieve an engraved wooden box that lay hidden among other forgotten items. The initials _S M _were adorned with swirling patterns that created a starry night sky in the seasoned wood. _Seraphina Morgenstern. _But the initials had not been left their by Seraphina – they were her grandmother's, and Seraphina reflected bitterly that the box was yet another thing that had never truly belonged to her.

She opened the box and the dagger was the first thing she saw – it appeared luminescent despite the dim lighting of her surroundings, and as she reached for it she felt it's magic singing through the metal. Beside it was a silver flower, glowing as brightly as the dagger. Perplexed, Seraphina picked it up – it had been in a dark box in a dark room for days, with no water or sunlight, and yet it seemed more vibrant than it had on that surreal night in the forest. Unsettled, she remembered all the warnings her father had given her about faeries – about their tricks and their dark magic, the way they lured Shadowhunters and mortals alike into their realm and inflicted unspeakable cruelties upon them.

Seraphina remembered once, when she was very young, asking her father to tell her a story before she fell asleep, because she had read a book about a girl whose parents always told her stories, and Seraphina had thought that that sounded very nice. But instead of the love stories and fairy tales that the girl in the book's parents had told her, Seraphina's father told her a very horrible, very true story about a mundane man who saw a fairy woman in the woods, and she was so beautiful that he became obsessed with finding her again. When he began trying to convince others that faeries were real, and that he had seen one, the faeries took matters into their own hands. The woman he had seen in the woods returned to him to lure him into the Seelie court. Once there, as an ironic punishment for what he had seen, the faeries sliced off his eyelids and then fed him nothing but sleeping potion. Seraphina hadn't slept well that night, and she never asked her father to tell her a story again.

Still, the fairy girl in the woods had seemed to be sincerely grateful, and so Seraphina decided to bring the gifts with her. She placed them back in the wooden box with the rest of her secrets, not wanting to leave it behind due to her fairly reasonable fear that her father might look through her things when she was gone. Jonathan probably would too, but it wasn't him Seraphina was hiding her betrayal from.

After that night in the forest, Seraphina had resolved to forget all about it. And, until remembering the dagger, she _had _forgotten about it. But now that it had resurfaced in her mind, she felt other secrets latching onto the memory and dragging themselves out of the darkness with it, menacing parasites leeching her thoughts. In all her life, Seraphina had found only one cure for such darkness, and so she went to find her sketchbook.

And that was when she remembered – she didn't know where it was. She had looked for it before that disastrous dinner, and she had never found it. She knew exactly what had happened to it; Seraphina didn't lose things, and her and her brother had been playfully devious that day. With a groan and an irritated flick of her hair, Seraphina abandoned her search for the sketchbook and redirected her efforts into finding her brother.

She found him in his bedroom, sprawled across his bed with a book, his hair mussed and his dark clothes blending into the black of his comforter. He turned to her where she stood in the doorway and raised an eyebrow, a devilish smirk twisting his features.

"Look who it is," he remarked sardonically, and she could see she had hurt his feelings – or at least his pride – when she had run away from him earlier. It would take a fair amount of groveling to get him to tell her where he had put her sketchbook.

She pranced to his bedside and alighted beside him with a small bound, flashing him a bright smile. "What are you doing?" she chirped.

Jonathan looked at her again, this time suspiciously; Seraphina rarely smiled, and she never chirped. "What do you want?" he asked warily, edging away from her.

"To spend time with you, of course," Seraphina's voice was less enthusiastic, but more herself. "It's my last day before I leave, after all."

Jonathan hummed doubtfully and returned his eyes to his book. "Is that so? You didn't seem very enthusiastic about spending time with me before."

Seraphina sighed, though she had known he would be difficult. "I told you, I needed to pack. And you must have known ordering me around would upset me." At his irritated glance, she continued, "You know how I am when it comes to things like this."

Jonathan snorted at that. "You mean doing what you're told? Yes, I know. You do the opposite and then wonder why everyone's angry with you."

"I don't do the _opposite_, not as a rule," she argued good-naturedly. "I just do what I want to."

Jonathan rolled his eyes, but Seraphina could see that he wasn't angry with her any longer. Seeing her chance, she ventured, "You know, I was hoping to give you the drawing we made together last week – when you were trying to draw a Nickar, remember? – so that you could have it while I was away. But – it's the strangest thing – I can't find my sketchbook anywhere."

Jonathan met her eyes with a devious smirk, a dark amusement sparking in his dark eyes. She smiled in return and cocked an eyebrow, and he laughed at her. "That _is _strange, Phina."

She huffed and shoved him off the bed, and he laughed harder. "Alright, alright," he conceded, "I'll tell you where it is. I'll even help you get it back. _But – _" Seraphina groaned " – I want something."

"Of course you do," she muttered.

"I want you to go somewhere with me tonight," he clarified.

"Where?"

"I'm not telling you. It's a surprise. Promise you'll go?"

Seraphina sighed. "Alright, I suppose." She hated surprises, but she hated being without her sketchbook more. Art was the only way she could get rid of some of the darkness in her mind, and without the outlet she had begun to feel short-tempered and restless.

"Good," Jonathan smiled with ominous mirth, and Seraphina worried that perhaps she had made a mistake in blindly promising something to her brother. But it had been years since he had hurt her terribly, and even as she pondered her worry he was pulling her to her feet and telling her that he had put her sketchbook in their father's bedroom. Seraphina was irritated, but she was grateful that at least Jonathan hadn't put the sketchbook in their father's study; he was almost always in his study, whereas retrieving it from his room wouldn't prove too difficult.

Their father's room was on the second floor in the east wing of the manor. It was where Seraphina's bedroom used to be, when she was a child, but she didn't come to the east wing very often anymore. Walking through the familiar yet forgotten hallways, she was soon surrounded by memories of spending time there as a child – fighting with Jonathan on the back staircase because it was the only one with carpeting, a location strategically chosen by a young Seraphina so that it would hurt less when he inevitably won and threw her down it; sitting before her favorite picture in the house – the Angel Raziel descending from heaven to imbue the Shadowhunters with their power – and trying to copy it exactly into her sketchbook so that she could finally master feathers and noses, her two major hurdles at the time.

But as time went on, Jonathan stopped fighting so brutally and restrained himself from throwing her down staircases quite so often, and a young Seraphina began to get the impression that their father had taken it upon himself to inflict the violence Jonathan wasn't anymore. So, for her tenth birthday present, she asked to relocate her bedroom to the west wing on the fourth floor, the room farthest from her father's. Her father had been upset and had argued that having her closer was more beneficial for her training and his observations, but he had once made a promise that they could ask for anything they wanted on their birthdays, so they did. And on that birthday, Seraphina had wanted to get away from their father, so she did.

Retrieving her sketchbook was, given the buildup, uneventful. Their father wasn't in his bedroom, so Jonathan and Seraphina wordlessly agreed that Seraphina would stand watch in the hallway and he would go get the book. The affair lasted just a few minutes before they were back in Jonathan's room, and Seraphina was clutching her sketchbook, and Jonathan was lounging on his bed and reading his book once more.

Their last day together was, given the buildup, uneventful. Their hearts beat in time with clocks, ticking and beating away the hours until Seraphina would be gone and they would both be alone. They laid next to each other in silence for long intervals, drowsy and miserable. They fought a few times, but Jonathan's heart wasn't in it like it normally was; Seraphina had to entice him into violence with vicious slaps and irritating scratches, but even then he could only bring himself to pull her hair and shove her halfheartedly. Everything was skewed and lifeless; their fights were dispassionate, Seraphina's drawings were absent of their usual morbid fantasies, and Jonathan's hard-heartedness was contrived – emotions pooled through cracks in his heart, cracks that his sister had put there through years of tireless effort. The beating of his heart drew hours to a close and sent sickly sweet sadness pulsing through his veins, numbing his darkness while bringing humanity into sharp clarity.

Seraphina, perplexed and unsettled by her brother's unfamiliar behavior – deep sighs escaping in tortured breaths, dark eyes lingering on her pale skin, gentleness and sentiments where before there had been cruelty and detachedness – quietly rose to her feet after hours of pained nothingness, finding solace from her brother's searching gaze and infectious misery in the darkness of her bedroom. Her packed belongings were an even darker shadow amidst the darkness.

She turned on the small lamp next to the bench by the window, creating a cocoon of light that she settled into with her sketchbook. When she had been in Jonathan's room, she had begun by drawing New York City – at least, what it looked like in her mind; large, gray buildings and dark streets, demons and Downworlders lurking in alleyways and shadows, a fascinating world of glittering darkness and macabre glamour. But, intoxicated with the darkness of her brother's presence, she had soon wandered off into drawings of haunted black eyes, pale skin that shone with a cold, lifeless beauty.

A new drawing was taking form on a new page, and she was happy to finally be able to draw something unrelated to her impending departure. But, while she was able to forget her worry about her trip for a time, Seraphina had never, in her life, been able to forget the darkness that infected her heart – a darkness that, she felt, was hereditary. Her father had it too, and her brother had more darkness than anybody. She wondered if her mother had a dark heart and figured that she must.

Given her preoccupations on that gloomy day, it was unsurprising what Seraphina found herself looking at once she had finished her drawing. A human heart, black and cracked and withered, blood dripping through its shattered surface in scarlet globs. Seraphina, at first, wasn't sure whose heart it was, but her question was answered when she saw the dagger that impaled it; glinting silver and breathing blackness, the only exception to its darkness a glinting emerald that glittered in the hilt. Seraphina had drawn her mother's dagger, which could only mean that she had drawn her father's heart. Or maybe the heart was all of theirs; the heart of their family, blackened and emaciated by generations of secrets and betrayal.

Seraphina gazed at the picture in disgust for a long moment, and wistfully, childishly wished that she had born into a loving family, unbroken and innocent. But she had been born into a family cursed by darkness, tethered to misery and dysfunction, hateful and self-destructive. Seraphina looked at the dagger in her father's heart and wondered if her life would be different if her mother had taken her with when she left. Seraphina wondered what kind of person she would be if she hadn't been born of madness and suffering. She imagined the people she would have known, the love she would have had, the life she could have lived, and realized for the first time the utter tragedy of her existence. And then, her moment of clarity and revelation dissipating into her anger and self-centeredness, she lapsed into her childish, dejected resentment once more as she rose from her chair, retrieved her mother's dagger from her belongings, and replaced it with a silver fairy dagger with juvenile satisfaction.

* * *

The moon was just a silver sliver in the dark night sky, but it gave off enough light to illuminate the gnarled, seemingly random path before Seraphina and Jonathan. Enraptured with the sight of branches against the starry night sky, Seraphina's fingers itched for her sketchbook, and in her preoccupation she stepped on a twig that broke the heavy silence of the night with a startling snap.

Jonathan hissed at her and she smiled meekly up at him, and he resumed their journey with an irritated shake of his head. He had come to her room once the moon had risen to begin the venture she had promised him in exchange for her sketchbook, and to her relief he seemed to be back to his normal self. His anguished infatuation had subsided into his normal demeanor – coolly withdrawn and gruffly affectionate. She pranced after his bobbing silver head, his long legs carrying him faster than she could walk normally, and her artistic eye trained itself on the luminescent silver of his hair. Her brother was all shadows, but the moon shined and the stars danced in the silver of his hair.

She wanted to ask where they were going, but she knew he would never tell her. So instead she continued behind him, hoping her thoughts could distract her from the nervousness that her curiosity was instilling within her. Luckily for her, she had a lot to think about.

As her thoughts strayed to all she had learned that afternoon, she remembered the terrifying feeling of sensing the piercing hurt that had sparked through Jonathan's heart. He didn't seem any different, but in that moment she had felt something change. A slight change, but she had felt it still. Seraphina's heart broke for the new seed of hate her brother had planted in his heart, knowing it would vanquish light and love to perpetuate itself and knowing that there was little she could do to stop it all the way from New York. But she resolved to try her best. Her brother deserved that much, at least, from the only person in the world who had ever shown him love.

She nearly ran into her brother's back when he came to a halt before her, so absorbed she was in her thoughts about him. She stumbled slightly and had to jump lightly to the side to avoid running into him.

Jonathan looked to her and smiled. "Alright, we're here," he declared.

"We're… here?" she asked. They weren't in any particular place, as far as she could see. They had emerged from the narrow path into a small, moonlit clearing. It looked very pretty, the moonlight in the darkness giving the world a blue tint. But her brother wasn't the type to plan a trip to a meadow in the middle of the night just because it was _pretty._

"Yes," he confirmed, "we're here."

He gestured to the ground and then kneeled, motioning for her to follow. She kneeled beside him, growingly perplexed.

"Look," he said. He reached forward and brought a flower into a small sliver of moonlight that had fought its way through the branches overhead. The flower was a very dark green, an intense, deep color. It almost looked liquid, with swirls of velvety darkness deep within its petals. It was beautiful, but Seraphina remained endlessly confused. Since when did her brother pick flowers? And since when did it merit a trip into the forest in the middle of the night?

"I saw them the other day," Jonathan explained softly. His voice sounded like dark music, melodious and haunting and melancholy. "They're the exact color of your eyes."

Startled, Seraphina wondered if her eyes really were that color. She had never thought they were so dark. "Really?" she whispered.

"Yes," Jonathan whispered back. He plucked the one before him and handed it to her. She handled it very delicately, as if it were glass that would shatter in her hands if she wasn't careful. "I thought, maybe" Jonathan continued, "you could bring it with you to New York. To remind you of Idris…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"And of you," she added, and he smiled.

"If I'm lucky," he jested.

"Of course I'll think of you, Jonathan," she reassured him, more seriously that time.

He didn't answer. He reached forward and plucked another flower from the grass, and when she looked to him in confusion he explained, "I want one, too."

She reached for his hand and he gave her a smile; the softest, most gentle smile she had ever seen him manage, completely absent of the misery and cynicism that usually shadowed his every expression. She smiled back, and she hoped she had managed the same gentleness, but she wasn't sure she had.

"Everyone's trying to take you away from me," Jonathan whispered brokenly.

"That isn't true, Jonathan," she whispered, "I'm coming back." But she didn't sound very convincing, and she knew it.

"Don't lie to me, Phina," Jonathan growled. "You're happy to be leaving, and you know it."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying," he sighed, "I'm saying that I think, once you're there and you get the chance to live without… all of this," he gestured miserably at their gloomy surroundings, and he seemed to encompass everything else, too – the cruelty of their father, the bruises on their skin, the scars on their hearts, "you won't want to come back. And then what? What will happen to me?"

"If I _did _decide not to come back, I would want you with me. I still wouldn't abandon you, you know that." Seraphina's eyes stung with unshed tears, and she forced them back into chest where they drowned her heart in salty sadness. Because she _was_ glad to leave, and she _didn't_ want to come back. But she didn't want to leave her brother, and she didn't know what was going to happen to him once she was gone.

"Not if you meet someone else," he was growling again.

"No one could ever replace you," she assured him, and his eyes met hers in surprised, yearning hope. "You're my brother," she finished.

"Right," he whispered, and the light in his eyes diminished slightly. "I'm your _brother._"

Seraphina wanted to ask why he seemed disappointed and a mature, darkly wise part of her whispered that she already knew. But before their conversation could continue, a twig snapped behind them and they spun around, startled. Whatever had interrupted them was still concealed by the darkness of the trees. Seraphina drew the faery dagger, putting the flower her brother had given her into the sheath in its place. Jonathan drew a seraph blade and angled his body to shield her from the potential threat, and she considered shoving him before deciding it would be immature.

A dark grey wolf emerged from the darkness in the rustling of leaves and the snap of more branches, and the moon's light glinted off of sharp white teeth, bared by a snarl. They advanced toward it but halted when more slinking shapes followed the first, different colored pelts, all snarling and murderous. Seraphina counted eleven wolves. But they weren't wolves.

"Werewolves," Jonathan spat, and an eruption of growls answered him.

Nervous, Seraphina wondered how she and Jonathan would manage in a fight against eight werewolves. She had no doubt that they could win, but not without sustaining their own injuries, and most likely not without killing their opponents. But Seraphina didn't want to kill them, so she attempted a soothing tone of voice. "We don't want any trouble," she tried to assure them, but the hostility of their demeanor didn't diminish.

"You're on our land," a low, menacing voice declared smoothly. The man behind it followed soon after, his disheveled hair and rough features matching his dangerous tone quite impeccably, Seraphina thought. But as she examined his features, she tensed; her brother had been spoiling for a real fight for days – not one with her, but one where he could brutalize and murder without restraint – and even on his best day he didn't take well to confrontation.

"_Your _land?" Jonathan snarled in the very indignation and hostility Seraphina had feared – and expected. "This is Idris, Downworlder. You're lucky the Nephilim allow your presence here at all."

Jonathan's scathing tone brought the wolves' attention to him, and their leader gasped in stunned recognition. "You look just like…" he only whispered it, but the Morgensterns' keen ears discerned the words as they floated through the cool night air. "But it can't be."

Another man emerged from the forest, just as disheveled and about the same age, a worn leather jacket over tanned skin and thin, ripped pants his only protection from the biting breeze. "What's going on here?" he demanded, and as he took his place at the apex of the wolves' formation, Seraphina quickly shifted her perception to view him as the leader rather than the first man who had spoken.

"Shadowhunters on our land," the first man provided gruffly. Jonathan snarled at the repeated error, and the leader turned his attention to Jonathan just as the first man had. Seraphina could have cursed her brother, then. What was he thinking?

The leader paused in surprise as his eyes fell upon her brother's face. "He… looks like…"

"I know," the other man interrupted. "And the girl looks just like _her_."

"But… it can't be," the leader protested, more to himself than to his companions. The wolves were growing agitated, their tails twitching back and forth with soft swishing noises, their paws scratching against the rough dirt that had gone too long without rain. The leader's eyes flashed back and forth between them, dread and anger mixing into undeniable recognition.

"It's funny, little ones," the leader finally addressed them, and this time Seraphina was the one bristling at his words; she had never liked being called little. "I could have sworn that Valentine Morgenstern and his family were gone for good. Yet who could you be, if not his children?" He had a faint accent. Seraphina would guess he was from Spain.

The other wolves must have been too young to recognize Jonathan and Seraphina's semblance to their parents for themselves, but at their leader's words their hackles raised and their lips peeled back from their teeth in vicious snarls once more. Seraphina felt dread pool in her stomach, cold and heavy. There was no way they were going to make it away without a fight – already the wolves were arranging themselves to surround the siblings – and if they lost, they would be risking their father's life in addition to losing their own.

Knowing better than to feign ignorance – Seraphina and Jonathan were the mirror images of their parents, especially to these men, who must have known the couple when they were still Jonathan and Seraphina's age – Seraphina only tightened her grip on her knife and prepared herself for battle. She met her brother's eyes in grim resignation. They would have to kill, and they would have to do it together, as they were designed to do. Seraphina found comfort in that – falling out of her own self and into a mold that had been designed for her, forgetting her qualms about taking the lives of others and hiding behind the knowledge that she had no other choice.

She and her brother waited three seconds – three perfectly timed, perfectly synchronized seconds, counted out in the beats of dark hearts. _One, two, three, _Seraphina counted. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

She and her brother burst into motion at the same time. She threw her knife at the wolf closest to her, a small male – young, weak – his grey fur soon splattered with ruby red blood. His sharp, dying yelp broke the weighted silence of the night and the other wolves sprang forward, roaring their outrage. Seraphina left the leader for her brother; his seraph blade was the stronger weapon. She saw Jonathan leap forward, his motions smooth and magnificent as they always were in battle.

But Seraphina didn't have time to linger on pride for her brother. A spry female wolf, more experienced than the male who was gasping out his wet, dying breaths on the forest floor, sprang at Seraphina, snapping sharp white teeth. Seraphina viciously tore her dagger free from the young male's flesh and swung her arm around to stab the female's side – the dagger slipped between two of her ribs and threw off her trajectory, sending her sprawling into the brush rather than into Seraphina.

The female's pained, labored gasps gave Seraphina a few moments to check on her brother; already, the fighting had pulled them apart from one another. The first man had just transitioned into a smoky gray wolf, and the leader stood uninjured and removed from the fighting behind wolves that had leapt before him to prevent Jonathan from reaching his target. Jonathan was growing frustrated and hacked at the wolves before him, slashing lacerations into their skin but failing to deliver any significant blows in his rashness. Seraphina wanted to shout at him to slow down and start thinking, but a flash of brown alerted her attention to the wolf that had come to take up its fallen comrades' objective.

The wolf was leaping through the air, claws extended and teeth bared. Seraphina didn't have the time or the opportunity to use her knife this time, she could tell, so instead she ducked under the wolf's lean form and rolled beneath it. When it landed she was behind it, already springing forward. She swung to stab it in the back – to pierce its spinal cord and its heart in one smooth, efficient motion. She had just managed to tear her dagger from the dead animal when a warm, solid figure slammed into her rib cage, throwing her to the side.

She was trapped beneath a snarling, writhing mass of warm fur and firm muscle, claws tearing through the skin of her torso and teeth nipping at the skin of her throat, searching for a vein to pierce and drain. She had maintained her grip on her weapon, but she had to expend an immense amount of effort before she could tear her arm away from the clawing, snapping animal and stab it in its side. The blow stunned the wolf and it loosened its hold on her. She rolled from beneath it and tore her knife free before bringing it forward again, this time plunging it into the wolf's throat.

Seraphina had killed three wolves, and a glance at her brother revealed he had only managed to kill one; the group was attacking him all at once, and he was too angry to think clearly enough to strategize around them. Seraphina registered this information and, in the same second, saw two wolves detach from the group around Jonathan and bound towards her. A flash of nervousness ignited in her stomach – she had dreaded this moment, the moment when the wolves would manage to organize themselves and fight as a pack instead of alone.

One of the wolves – a light brown – fell behind so that the other – grey and white – would reach her first. She dodged the first's initial attack – claws swiping at her torso as it leapt at her chest – but the second wolf was ready for her escape, springing at her just as she twisted away from the first and managing to sink its sharp teeth into her thigh. Gear would have protected her from the injury, but she hadn't prepared for a fight when she had left the manor with her brother; unsurprisingly, the wolf's teeth had no trouble slicing through the thin fabric of her black leggings and sinking into the flesh below.

Seraphina hissed and slammed the hilt of her dagger into the wolf's muzzle. It yelped and jerked its teeth out of her leg, and she hit it again in the same spot, reveling in dark satisfaction as she felt bone crack beneath her blow and saw blood seep through the brown fur. But her satisfaction was short-lived, because she had two wolves to worry about. As the brown one sprang away from her to recover, the other attacked again.

It aimed for her torso again and she twisted away, but it still managed to slash her arm with its long claws. She kicked at its ribs as it sprang past her, and the blow forced it to the ground. Now the brown wolf leapt forward again, and Seraphina felt a sense of hopelessness. This could go on forever until she managed to kill one, and even then there were five more to worry about – and that wasn't including the alpha and his companion. And Jonathan and Seraphina couldn't leave until they were all dead – the two men had recognized them and now the rest of their pack knew too. As if that weren't enough – thirteen was too small for a werewolf pack, especially in Idris. This was only a small group of a larger one, and if even one ran away from the fight to relay the news of Valentine's children, Seraphina and Jonathan would have to spend the rest of their night hunting it down.

Her fight with the two wolves continued on, an endless, exasperating cycle of one of them leaping forward to attack and then dancing away with a fresh laceration or a cracked bone to let the other take its place. Her dagger had become almost useless – they were moving too fast for her to do more than slice their skin; far from a deadly blow. She had deduced, after a few minutes of fighting, that the two wolves were mates – the grey was the male, the brown the female. They were protecting each other as much as they could; leaping forward before she could land a real blow on the other, exhausting themselves to give the other more time to rest. Normally, Seraphina would have scoffed at their foolishness. But, unfortunately for her, they worked well together, and their strategy was working.

A flash of annoyance pierced her battle-trained mind – she and Jonathan could fight even better together than these lovesick dogs, but the fight had kept them separate from each other. The wolves had been smart to do so, but once Jonathan and Seraphina managed to join each other – and they _would _– they could win, Seraphina was sure of it.

Seraphina made a decision, then. A horrible, cruel decision that she would come to feel inconsolably guilty for. The brown wolf had just sprung away from her once more, a fresh wound marring the fur of her chest. But this time, Seraphina didn't play into the wolves' tactic. She followed the brown wolf's retreat, not relenting in her attacks. In doing so, she left herself unprotected from the male as he began his own attack. She had surprised them; they had established a pattern that they thought they had control over, and now Seraphina had broken it.

The brown wolf was feeble and unprepared in the face of Seraphina's continued attack, so accustomed she was to the established mindset that she could rest after her attacks while her mate took up the mantle. The male's claws in Seraphina's skin were tentative and half-hearted; he had expected his first attack to fail since Seraphina had managed to avoid each one, and he had no doubt reserved his strength for his second blow, which he usually landed because Seraphina would be off-balance. The couple's incompetence had been exactly what Seraphina had anticipated, and she didn't waste time in using it to her advantage.

She forced sentiments and doubt into the bottom of her heart – that blackened deathly pit where she sent things destined to starve into nonexistence. And as she did so, she swung her arm, dagger in hand, toward the brown wolf – unprepared, surprised, injured and fatigued. The dagger sank into flesh just where Seraphina had wanted it to – in the tender, defenseless span of skin on the wolf's underside. It was a death blow – not instantaneous, but inexorable.

The female whimpered and slashed a half-hearted swipe at Seraphina's neck. The blow landed, but Seraphina thought nothing of the shallow stings dragging through her skin. The male wolf whined in dismay, its teeth still embedded in Seraphina's side where he had bitten as she lunged toward his mate. She could feel his anguish, and she felt it make him chaotic and bewildered; he didn't know if he should help his mate – she was dying anyway, anyone could see – or continue attacking Seraphina.

While he remained in the midst of his agonized indecision, Seraphina tore herself away from his fangs and spun to stab him with her dagger, too. The dagger sank into his neck and he yelped in shock before blood flooded his throat. Another killing blow. The wolf's legs trembled and then collapsed, and blood pooled in his mouth, dripping gruesomely through the spaces between his sharp, white teeth. Seraphina knew it must be painful and considered another blow to put the wolf out of his misery, but decided against it when he began feebly dragging himself over to the female. He wanted to say goodbye, Seraphina guessed. A quick evaluation of the two assured Seraphina that they would both die in minutes. Deciding they would no longer pose a threat, she left them in their last minutes together and ran to help her brother.

A detached, distant part of her was agonized and breathless as she considered what she had just done. She had used their love against them. She had turned their selflessness into a weapon for her cruelty, wielding it deftly, succinctly, without remorse or hesitation. But she couldn't afford to think about that now – she was fighting for the sake of her family, not just herself – so she smothered yet another awful emotion into the dark cavern in her heart.

With each breath, she expelled her guilt and agony and replaced it with relieving, encompassing numbness. She focused on her breathing; _in, out, _and over again. _In,_ she had to help her brother. _Out, _it was over, they were already dying. _In, _she had to protect her father's secret. _Out, _it wasn't her fault they had been weak and unprepared. _In, _her father had been right, earlier; she had to think about more than just herself. _Out, _her father had been right, all these years; to love is to destroy, and to be loved is to be the one destroyed. It didn't take many breaths before she didn't feel anything at all. Only the cold wind against her skin as she ran across the clearing to her brother, the echo of her pulse in her ears as she prepared for the next battle.

Her brother had killed two wolves. The alpha must have transformed to help his pack, because there was a new wolf in the fray – a very large wolf with deep, rich brown fur that darkened into black at his paws. Jonathan turned to see her coming and smiled. Blood had splattered the pale skin of his face, and his rage had morphed into the glee he often felt when he was killing things. Seraphina registered these things without the slightest trace of emotion, her newfound numbness and detachment taking over her senses as she had hoped they would.

The wolves hadn't noticed her yet. A small white wolf – young, slender, probably female – sprang for Jonathan, who was occupied with a black wolf nipping at his legs. Seraphina leapt, too, neatly slipping her dagger between the white wolf's ribs before it could reach Jonathan. The wolf gasped and landed with a loud thump. Seraphina figured she must have punctured its lung.

With their sister dying beside them, the other wolves took notice of Seraphina's arrival. A few turned to begin fighting her, but a harsh, commanding growl from the alpha halted their advance. They retreated, obeying the unspoken command, as did the other wolves. The alpha wanted them to regroup; he no doubt had not anticipated the siblings to last this long so outnumbered – any other Shadowhunter would have struggled to fare as well as they had.

Seraphina was only slightly worried as the wolves formed a circle around her and Jonathan. She was severely injured – countless times, claws had torn through her skin and fangs had ripped through skin and muscle. She was aching and in pain and drenched in blood. But not all of the blood was hers, and she was with her brother now. Their fights against each other were harmless and petty, but together they were deadly. They were outnumbered, yes, and injured. But they were together, and they would win.

The wolves converged on them all at once, but the siblings were prepared. Jonathan stabbed and slashed with more accuracy and purpose than before – his sister's presence had calmed him enough to allow him to think through his killing rage. Seraphina was more merciless and vicious in her attacks, her self-imposed impassiveness allowing her battle skills to manifest in full force. Within seconds, they had each killed a wolf. Whines spread through the wolves, dismayed and mournful. When they had begun this fight, they hadn't had the expectation of losing so many of their companions, and it was wreaking havoc on their determination.

Seraphina and Jonathan were fighting in their usual cohesive, remarkable manner. The wolves were enraged and desperate, but fought no better because of it. In their grief for their fallen comrades, they had fallen apart. Soon, only the alpha, his lieutenant, and two other wolves remained. Seraphina forced herself not to dismiss the rest of the fight, however – the wolves that remained were still alive because they were the best fighters, and they were more skilled and level-headed than the dead and dying that lay behind them.

Her apprehension proved merited when a clever maneuver distracted Seraphina with the belief that her brother was in danger and gave a wolf an opening to sink its teeth into neck. She whimpered and hissed and shoved it off of her, but the damage was done – she could feel warm blood sliding down her neck and her every breath was painful, stretching the wounds in her neck.

Her brother had also been distracted, but he turned at the noise of Seraphina's struggle and saw what had happened. He stared at her in surprise for a moment, enthralled by the gruesome injury. Then, registering what had happened, he roared in outrage. His teeth bore in a snarl as animalistic as the wolves' and he used his seraph blade to brutally decapitate the wolf who had wounded Seraphina.

The other's yelped in surprised fear, and he turned on them with the same violence. He went for the alpha, and the other two attempted to impede his path. Seraphina felt light-headed, but she mustered the strength to reenter the fight. She went for the gray wolf, the next in command behind the alpha. With the two leaders occupied, a wolf with mottled brown and white fur remained. The alpha transformed into a man, surprising Jonathan momentarily.

"_Carmen!_" the alpha shouted hoarsely at the lone wolf, who had just begun to advance toward Jonathan. "Go!" the alpha ordered, his voice muffled and strained as Jonathan continued to fight him, slowly forcing him to the ground.

Seraphina knew what the alpha was ordering, and she forced herself to fight more ruthlessly through her fatigue to defeat the gray wolf and take on the last one – Carmen, apparently. But the gray wolf, sensing her intentions, used its bulk to impede her path and keep her contained. Meanwhile, the alpha continued to encourage the other wolf.

"Leave us," he snarled before grunting in pain as Jonathan cracked one of his ribs with a vicious kick. "You have to tell the others. Valentine has returned, you have to tell them! They have to know. Everyone does."

The brown wolf hesitated for just a moment before obedience to her alpha forced her to comply with his orders. She leapt over the corpses of the rest of her pack, heading west, back into the forest. Seraphina groaned in dismay; they had to stop her or all would be lost. But the gray wolf was still managing to hold her back, and the alpha was doing the same with Jonathan. The wolves were both losing their respective fights, but they were doing so in a way that was keeping Jonathan and Seraphina occupied.

Seraphina glanced worriedly at the wolf's retreating form once more before gasping in surprise as an arrow arced through the night sky, silhouetted against the moon. Seraphina was the only one who had noticed it. It seemed to move in slow-motion, as if through deep water, before impaling the running wolf with a barely audible _thump. _

In her preoccupation, she had stopped fighting the gray wolf. It stopped too, in curiosity of what had distracted her. He turned to follow her gaze and released a mournful howl to alert his alpha; their last hope was gone, dead – or at least dying – before she had even reached the trees. The gray wolf snarled, then, and barreled forward to collide with Seraphina, forcing her to the ground with its weight alone.

She gasped at the pressure on her battered body and whimpered softly. The wolf snapped at her throat, its teeth clicking together each time it failed, and dug its claws into her torso to hold her to the ground. Suddenly, though, his muscles slackened and slumped, and he became a dead weight on her chest, forcing her even further onto the dry soil that scratched against her skin. She looked up at him in surprise. His eyes were a dark, deep brown. And as she looked into their depths, she saw the life in them fade away, cooling and calming and stilling into nothingness as death overtook his body. It was like watching water freeze over, she thought, like watching the deep, fluid currents slow and still and then fade away completely, frozen in time forever.

After a moment of stunned reflection, she pushed the corpse off of her to see her father standing before her, his face obscured as the moon behind him turned him into a dark, shadowed figure. He held a bow in one hand, and Seraphina saw the fletches of arrows sticking up behind one broad shoulder. She couldn't see the anger on his face, but she could feel it buffeting her psyche, dark and furious and toxic.

He had left her brother to fend for himself in the remainder of his fight against the alpha. The two were still grappling, rolling across the ground and exchanging vicious blows, Jonathan's seraph blade lying forgotten in the grass a few feet away. Their father approached the pair, his stride powerful and determined. When he reached them, he grabbed his son by the shoulder and pulled him sharply away from his fight, shoving him to the side where he landed with a disgruntled growl.

Their father slammed his foot into the alpha's throat and kept it there, pinning him to the ground. "You dare harm my children, Downworlder?" he said softly, menacingly. "Well, look where it's gotten you."

The man's eyes darted to take in his fallen pack, their bodies littered around the blood-soaked meadow. A single tear rose in one dark eye, more angry than sad, and he spat at their father. "Murderer," he snarled, his voice tense and distorted by their father's foot depriving him of air.

"Me?" their father laughed, as if the alpha had insulted him in jest, "A murderer? _I _didn't do this. I just got here."

"I'm not talking about _them_," the man replied, his voice even more strained and his face turning red. His voice cracked on the word 'them', with grief and anger over the loss of his family. "I'm talking about _everything _you've done. I know who you are."

"No," their father smiled without the slightest trace of humor. "You think you do. But you haven't seen anything yet. It's a pity," he continued, pressing his foot harder against the man's throat, eliciting a pained, choking noise as he struggled for breath, "it seems you never will."

Jonathan had gotten to his feet and walked over to Seraphina, and now they stood together, covered in blood and gasping in pain, watching the exchange.

Their father let up on his pressure slightly, allowing the man to speak again. "You will fail again, Valentine Morgenstern. The world will know the truth about you soon enough. Soon, the world will know that you are still alive, that you are planning something."

"I sincerely hope so," their father said. "But tonight is not the night for that, my friend. You should have sent out your dispatch sooner." Their father dropped his façade of politeness and casualty without warning, his tone transforming into scorn and cruelty. "Then maybe you and your pack wouldn't have sacrificed your worthless lives for nothing."

More tears escaped the man's eyes, both from pain and misery. A strangled whispered escaped his lips.

"What was that?" their father inquired politely, and Seraphina realized the whisper had been the man's attempt to speak.

"I said," the man gasped, "_God help me_."

Valentine paused for a moment, and then smiled – slow and forbidding. "He can't help you now, Downworlder. Or have you forgotten? In the battle between the Angel's children and the spawn of the devil, heaven fights with _us_."

With those words, he loosed an arrow into the man's throat.

He turned to face his children, and they stared at him in apprehension. More pressing than her curiosity as to how he had found them, Seraphina felt a deep worry for how he would react to the incident.

Their father stared at them. He shifted his gaze to stare only at her. She wished he would stop. Finally, he did, after saying "Heal that wound on your neck. You're bleeding out." Jonathan drew his own stele to comply, and Seraphina winced as the burning instrument carved a rune into her skin.

Once the wound was healed, their father turned without a word and began the return journey to the manor. Seraphina and Jonathan followed silently. Before they exited the clearing, Seraphina turned around to look at the two wolves she had killed, the couple. They had died in wolf form. The male must have managed to drag himself to lie beside his mate. Their noses were pressed together, their eyes open. They had died looking into each other's eyes. They must have seen the same thing Seraphina had seen in the eyes of the gray wolf. Or, at least, one of them had. The one who had died last.

Seraphina turned away from the dead lovers when her brother, impatient with her lagging pace, grabbed her hand and yanked her forward to walk beside him. She didn't always allow such affection from him, but in that moment she was grateful for it. His warm fingers against her cool skin felt tangible, solid, anchoring – alive. It was comforting, with the chilling presence of death still lingering in the forest, and so she didn't pull her hand free from his.

They followed their father's broad shadow through the dark forest, the small family silent and pensive. Their father didn't say a word – he didn't want to speak - and neither did the siblings. They didn't need to. When they reached the manor they found it as dark and silent as they were. Seraphina and her brother departed from each other at the third floor staircase – Jonathan walking towards his room and Seraphina to hers. They hadn't slept apart in a while, but they would tonight, as they had silently agreed.

Seraphina washed the crimson blood off of her skin without turning on any lights. The idea of light seemed intrusive and unappealing, and so she remained in darkness as she showered and dressed. As she approached her bed, she tripped over her packed belongings, having forgotten they were there. It was then that she remembered that she was leaving in the morning – leaving her home and her family. The idea wasn't sad like it used to be. She had a feeling that, even if she wasn't numb and emotionless, it still wouldn't be sad.

She lay in her bed, on top of the covers. A faint, distant ruckus floated over the night air and in through her open window – the baying of angry, pained wolves. The rest of the pack must have found the lifeless bodies of their companions. Seraphina felt the cold numbness surrounding her heart crack and diminish, allowing her a faint semblance of the emotions that roiled in her chest.

A mournful, agonized howl echoed through the air, and Seraphina felt its echo in her heart, too – piercing and ripping its way through her. It tore through her shield of impassiveness, shattering the barrier that kept her ghosts and emotions in the dim depths of her heart. She listened to the most sorrowful, tormented noise she had ever heard in her life and wondered how she would possibly live, knowing that she was the cause of it. She wondered how any creature could feel such heart-wrenching pain, and she wondered how any person could be cruel enough to cause it.

But she _had _caused it – her and her brother and her father. Her family had torn another family apart, and as they fell asleep in their large, cold manor, that torn-apart family grieved in the night, bellowing their sadness to the moon and the stars and letting it resound through the dark forest.

Her father had taught her many things about the world. And one of them was that Downworlders were less than human – that they didn't deserve to live like people, and they didn't deserve to die like them either. But that night, those werewolves hadn't seemed any different. When the gray one had died, Seraphina had been staring straight into his eyes. And the pain and fear that she had seen there wasn't anything a demon could have felt – it was raw and intense, and, above all, utterly human.

Seraphina remembered the emotions in those eyes – brown, deep, endless – and she remembered the flash of thoughts and memories that she could vaguely see whirling behind the surface before those swirling phantoms had been halted, silenced by a sharp arrow singing through the night air. And Seraphina felt that she would remember it for the rest of her life – that tragic vision of a lifetime of thoughts and emotions silenced suddenly and disappearing without a trace. Seraphina thought it was the most heartbreaking thing she had ever seen. To disappear like that; so suddenly, so completely. To have everything you'd ever thought or felt be erased into meaningless nothingness by the cold, unforgiving touch of death. It didn't seem fair. It didn't seem like anything could ever truly mean anything, if it would all disappear eventually.

Earlier that day, what seemed like a lifetime ago, her father had called her a protector. A light in the darkness. But listening to the mourning howls of newly lost souls, Seraphina realized how wrong he had been. She wasn't a protector; she was a destroyer – she killed and murdered in cold blood at her father's command, like a vicious dog released from its chains. She wasn't light; she was darkness – darkness was in her mind and in her heart, pooling and swarming and perpetuating itself as she passed day after day in pain and anger, and sometimes she released that darkness from within her in purges of violence and misery that added their own essence to the evil of the world. When she died, and everything about her disappeared, it wouldn't be a tragedy. It would be a mercy, a blessing, when she left the world and took her darkness with her.

Seraphina had never felt such crushing, inescapable emotion. She felt guilt and rage and hopelessness, hatred, disgust, and remorse. And beneath it all, sadness. A horrible, aching grief for everything she had lost and everything she would never have. Helpless anger for what she had become, what her father had turned her into. Inescapable remorse for the lives she had taken and the pain she had caused. Sadness, deep and timeless; it would be a part of her forever. There was no escape from it. There was no escape from who she was. She would be this lost forever, alone and unloved.

Seraphina didn't know how long she was trapped in her emotions, blind and lost and sobbing. But eventually, a single thought broke through the endless darkness and overtook her mind. It was an image. Seraphina reacted out of instinct to the familiar experience – it hadn't happened in a while, but she still knew what to do. She rose from where she had curled into a ball on her floor and scrambled to reach her sketchbook. She flipped to the back, to a section reserved specifically for events like this. She found a pencil and drew the image from her mind onto the first clean page she found.

She stared at the rune for a long few moments after she had finished. It had been weeks since she had created a new rune, but this one was powerful. She could feel its power, even through the lines sketched simply with pencil on a piece of paper. It wasn't powerful in a universal sense – it wouldn't collapse buildings or kill demons – but it was powerful because of its potential, because of what it could do for her. It took her a few minutes to think of a single word for what it would do – its intricacies were numerous and complicated. Finally, she settled on a word that encompassed the general idea as much as any word could and wrote it beneath the rune.

It was finished. A very complicated rune lay on the page – equal parts sharpness and swirling, lines crossing over and under each other countless times. And beneath it, in Seraphina's slanted cursive, its name. _Identity. _

Seraphina reached for her stele. She pulled up her shirt and placed the tip of the stele against her rib cage, ignoring the discomfort of its coolness against her exposed skin. For a moment, she reveled in her emotions – she let them overcome her, crushing and heartbreaking, and sickly sweet in their agonizing pain. And in the background, the agonized howling of wolves continued to echo through the air, mirroring her heartbreak. And then she drew the rune, easily, deftly – its design and purpose already ingrained in her mind.

As the rune took form on her skin, she felt it spinning its magic in her mind and heart. Her heart pushed it through her blood, it flooded her mind, it ached in her muscles and sang through her bones. For a moment, she was lost – no thoughts, no light, no emotions, no knowledge at all. Just a faded memory of herself, floating through darkness.

Then, knowing what she needed to do, she mustered what little willpower she could into a single thought, the first that came into her head. _Clarissa. _She felt the name take root and become more than a name. It slid over her skin and encased her heart in a fragile shell. It slipped between her muscles and wove threads through her mind.

When she was finished she rose to her feet, feeling lightheaded and strange. She felt out of place, like she was a stranger in her own mind. Her emotions were no longer crushing her; they had been subdued once more, forced back into darkness and obscurity to lie forgotten and starving. She went back to her bed and lay on it, shaky and exhausted and still uneasy in her new skin.

She focused all of her attention into her new self – _Clarissa, Clarissa, Clarissa. _She forced the foreign thought through her mind over and over again, waiting for it to feel less strange. Valentine had told her once that it was the name her mother had wanted for her, before he had vetoed it and chosen his mother's name instead. In her meeting with him earlier, he had mentioned that she would need a fake name, and that was the name that had come to her mind. It was fitting, she decided. _Clarissa _was an idea; the idea of what her mother had wanted her to be. And that's what she would be when she found her mother – a projection of the daughter her mother had wanted.

She continued to force the thought through her mind – _Clarissa _– and imagined a life to go with it. Her mother had taken her with her. She had never known Valentine or his cruelty or his madness. She would have friends. Her friends would have a nickname for her, because that's what friends in books did. They would call her Clary, and so would her mother. She would be loved. She would be happy. She wouldn't be sad. Eventually, she began to believe her own lie, and the life she had created seemed real.

As Clary took shape in her mind, Seraphina was quieted and weakened. She was subdued and drowned out, forced into her own darkness. She was still Seraphina, sad and pained and bitter. But Seraphina was wearing a mask – a shield, almost. Clary was a mask that hid pain and darkness beneath the blank canvas of a new identity. Seraphina would go to New York and get the Mortal Cup from Jocelyn. Clary would talk and interact and live; she would meet new people and convince her mother to trust her. Seraphina would fight. Clary would feel.

The wolves never ceased their howling, but despite the eerie, pained cries, Clary was able to drift off into an uneasy sleep.

* * *

**I know I changed the story a little bit about the kids' births and Jocelyn's betrayal. But it is fanfiction, after all. **

**On a side note, sometimes more writing helps me when I'm having trouble writing, so if you ever think of a one-shot you would want me to write for you, you should definitely send the prompt to me over tumblr. And if you ever want to ask me something - about the story, or the mysteries of life, or anything that strikes your fancy - you'd be best off doing it over tumblr. I almost never check fanfiction (which is dumb of me, so, sorry).**

**I know I always ask, but I would really love it if you could leave me a review about the chapter. I had a really hard time with it. **

**If you have praise or criticism or a question or a comment, please let me know. **

**Thanks for reading.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Hey, guys. This is going to be a long A/N, and I apologize in advance. You don't really have to read it, but I did write it for a reason.**

**So, my prayers were answered and writing was not as difficult for me this time. I know the wait between chapters is still substantial, but I possess the tendency to obsess over details. It's a character flaw. **

**_But _****another reason is that I don't write in chronological order. If I have an inspiration for a scene or a plot point, I'm better off writing it while it's fresh in my mind than hoping I remember it later. So I do write it, and sometimes that takes time away from the current chapter. (I really don't understand how people write in order. It seems like such a strange, difficult thing to do.) I have parts of this story written that won't be important for quite some time, but I wrote them anyway so I have them when the time comes. For example, this week I wrote a lovely passage about Clary and Jace, and it took me a while, but I like it and I can't wait for you guys to read it. **

**So yeah, I thought I would provide a small explanation for the wait between chapters. Most of you probably skipped that. And that's okay.**

**Next, I have a huge apology to make. An oversight was pointed out to me in a review (thanks again for that) - in the last chapter, Seraphina was bitten by a werewolf because I wasn't thinking. But, for those of you who caught it, _no _she will not turn into a werewolf. Just consider it a normal wound, please. I would appreciate it if we could just move on from that and forget it happened. I don't deserve your forgiveness, but I offer you my sincerest apologies.**

**I know the whole identity, Seraphina - Clary thing is a little confusing. I'm sorry about that. It really does make sense in my head, I swear, but I didn't realize how hard it would be to explain until I actually tried to write it down. I included some reflection on it in this chapter, and I hope it helps, at least a little bit.**

* * *

_"The need to go astray, to be destroyed, is an extremely private, distant, passionate, turbulent truth." _

_– Georges Bataille_

* * *

A fascinating spectrum of shining, dancing colors whirled past Clary as she fell through the portal. Her breath caught in her throat and her heart stilled in her chest. She watched green grass and trees and sunlight give way to a gray landscape under a gray sky. She lurched to a stop, her feet scratching loudly against pavement, and she stumbled forward a few steps. At least she hadn't fainted or thrown up – many people did during portal travel, she had heard.

When she lurched to a halt, she found herself in a deserted, dirty alleyway. Broken glass littered the ground, lying in pools of stale, dirty rainwater. Brick walls covered in graffiti lay on either side, and Clary, looking up, could barely see the tops of the buildings that created the space. But even there in that empty alley, she found herself surrounded by more noise and activity than she could remember encountering in her entire life. Countless feet hitting the pavement, the blares of car horns, endless, ceaseless voices, and the noise of traffic – they were muffled, but she could hear them, the darkness and obscurity of the alley the only thing separating her from the city.

She approached the entrance of the alley with the weighty sense of something significant – the feeling that her movement towards the city was more than just footsteps on pavement, that her presence there was more than just a trip away from home. She felt it in the racing of her heart and the shakiness of her breath, and she paused before she reached the sidewalk to compose herself. She told herself she was being ridiculous. There was nothing special about this trip; she would get the Mortal Cup from her mother, and then she would be home again. With Jonathan. She shook her head to clear her thoughts. And then she stepped forward, emerging onto a city sidewalk bustling with people.

No one had noticed her exit from the alley. No one looked twice at her. For several moments, as she followed the flow of traffic along the broad, damp sidewalk, she felt strangely insecure. She had never been around mundanes before, and already she could see the differences between her and them. It was in the way they walked, the way they dressed, even the way they spoke. Everything about them was so… _loud. _They spoke loudly. They laughed loudly. As a collective whole, they were far less sophisticated than the Shadowhunters she had spent her life with. But something about their boisterousness was endearing, she thought. Valentine had always said that their behavior was a result of ignorance and a lack of refinement, but Clary thought it might be something else – a sense of happiness and freedom that would be forever out of reach for the Nephilim who had spent their entire lives at war.

Remembering herself after the confusion of being surrounded by so many people, she dug into her pocket for the small scrap of paper. She unfolded it and saw the address of her apartment written across the top with a few directions beneath. She glanced at a street sign as she passed it – 8th avenue. Her navigation rune – like an internal compass – informed her that she was heading in the right direction, so she continued on with the flow of people.

She passed several entrances to the subway on her way there, but she decided to walk to her apartment. The bad weather meant the subways were crowded, and the thought of being crammed in between people underground was far from appealing. She didn't mind the rain that stopped and started throughout her walk. And though it had been jarring at first, she found she liked the noise and commotion of the city. It was soothing, in a strange way. She had never felt more invisible. And she liked it.

But despite growing to like New York in the short time she had been there, already she sensed the gnawing pain of homesickness in her heart. She hadn't expected to feel it, but she did. Not for her father, though it would feel strange not to have his firm orders and lessons to guide her. It was more for her brother – dark and sad and, now, alone – and Idris itself. With its dense forests and sprawling manors, it couldn't be more different from this cramped, crowded city. She knew she would miss Idris; it was her home, and she had never known anything else. But she forced herself to keep an open mind. She wouldn't be in the city long – she would be back with her brother in no time – a few days, probably – and they would run and hunt and hide in the deep, dark forest together, and she would be home and they would be happier than before.

She told herself that, over and over again. The same way she had told her brother earlier that morning, before she had left. For the most part, her departure had been uneventful. Her brother had given her a hug, which he normally never did, but it had been nice. He had squeezed her a little too tight, but she knew it was because he cared about her, and he would miss her, and he didn't want her to leave. Valentine had hugged her too, which he hadn't done in years and years, and it had been completely bizarre. He didn't hold her tight enough, and she knew it was because they had become strangers to each other in all the ways that mattered, and he didn't know what was in her heart, and he never would.

And then she had left, stepped through the portal that was waiting for her after her father had pressed pages of instructions into her hand. She looked at them now, gazing intently at her mother's address beneath her own and attempting to figure out how far it was from her. But she didn't know the city at all, and she didn't know.

On another page were things she would need to know about the city. Where Shadowhunters would be, where Downworlders would be, and where demons would be. She smirked. Pangborn and Blackwell must have had an awful time doing all that research. She tried to imagine them in a Downworlder haunt, stiff and conspicuous, and figured the Downworlders must have given the uptight Shadowhunters a pretty rough time. She almost laughed.

Among closer inspection, she noticed that the addresses of the prominent Downworlder establishments were in the same neighborhood as her apartment. Confusedly, she wondered why her father had placed her so close to them. Clary had lapsed into deeper thought, attempting to figure it out, so when a passerby bumped roughly into her shoulder she felt her heart jump. The man was around her age, and he didn't apologize. She felt herself liking the city somewhat less as her shoulder throbbed and the rain began to fall again, and she realized she was still about a mile away from her apartment. She took a deep breath and reminded herself it was only temporary. She would be home soon. She would be with her brother soon.

When she finally reached her apartment building, she was standing before a tall, old building made of dark bricks. It didn't look decrepit, necessarily, but it certainly wasn't opulent. She walked in the front door and was greeted with pleasantly dry, cool air after the humidity outside. Her father had written that the landlord lived in apartment 1C, so she made her way down the hallway, figuring she should announce herself or… something. She had never done this before.

Apartment 1C was located right next to the staircase that ran all the way through the core of the building, from the first floor to the roof. She rapped thrice on the door, hesitantly, and while she was waiting for a response she gazed upwards to the circular window that adorned the ceiling above the top of the staircase, several stories above her. The window was clear in the center, and stained glass surrounded it. It was beautiful, and it looked old. Judging from the wrought iron railings of the worn staircases and the antique stained glass above her, Clary guessed that the building was very old and marveled at the skill and care it must have taken to maintain the original architecture.

Suddenly, the door flew open before her and she jumped, snapping her gaze to the person before her. Or, rather, _below _her. Standing in the doorframe was a petite elderly woman, hunched over with fatigue and age. Clary felt a spark of pity for her.

That is, until the woman's harsh voice snapped, "Why do you interrupt me, devochka?" through a thick Russian accent.

"I… I," for a moment, Clary floundered, taken aback by the woman's animosity. "I'm your new tenant, Clarissa. I just got here."

One of the woman's clouded eyes narrowed, and Clary realized the other eye was glass. She tried not to wince; eyes made her squeamish. "Yes," the woman grumbled, "I expected you."

For a moment, the pair of them stood before each other in awkward silence – awkward on Clary's part, at least – as the landlord's gaze traveled from her head to her toes and back again, scrutinizing. "Come inside," the woman snapped abruptly.

Clary scrambled after her hobbling form into the tiny apartment, shutting the door behind her. The apartment was dimly lit and very small, and extremely cramped and cluttered with a variety of knick knacks and art. Clary knew enough about different cultures to recognize the Russian influences in the apartment and its decorations. As she followed the woman into a narrow hallway, several times her peripheral vision caught the gleam of feline eyes from the darkness of empty rooms. So her crazy landlord was a cat lady. Figures.

The woman stopped before a large cabinet and opened it, revealing the inside of one door that was covered in hanging keys. She located the right one and handed it to Clary. "Apartment 7E," she muttered. "Rent is paid by vash otets – your father." The woman raised a bony, gnarled finger and pointed it in Clary's direction to emphasize her next words. "_No _loud noises, no animals, no trouble, devochka."

Seraphina would have bristled at being called "girl" and would have already released her vexation with a scathing remark or a dramatic exit, but Clary just murmured "Do svidaniya" and left quietly. Her landlord looked surprised at her Russian, but didn't comment.

"Devochka!" the woman shouted after her.

"Yes?" she asked hesitantly, fearing more hostility.

"I am Aksinya." The expression in her one eye seemed to have softened a bit, but the lines of cruelty and unhappiness still marred her face.

"Clarissa," Clary reminded her.

"Yes, yes. Do svidaniya."

Rather than being in a stairwell, the staircase ran through the center of the building, so Clary could see the doors of each apartment as she made her way up to the seventh floor. The apartments were arranged in a square around the staircase, and upon reaching her floor she saw that hers was in a corner. She unlocked the door with her key and walked into a small, empty apartment.

It was certainly… modest, she thought. But she liked it. The apartment was just four rooms – the small sitting room she had walked into, an even smaller kitchen, a bathroom, and, in the back corner of the apartment, a bedroom. She walked into it to find a small bed – much smaller than hers at home but a much more reasonable size for just one person – a dresser underneath the only windows in the room, and a desk.

And on the desk was a white piece of paper, the blur of writing visible from where she stood in the doorway. She approached it to find a note from Valentine:

_I have left further instructions for you at the Post Office. Do send a letter while you're there, informing me of your arrival._

_~V._

Clary rolled her eyes. If he was leaving a note anyway, why not just leave the instructions themselves on her desk instead of sending her on a scavenger hunt? And what on earth was she supposed to write in her letter? She had just gotten there, and nothing had happened yet. But her irritation wasn't anywhere near strong enough to risk angering her father, so she resignedly sat herself down at the desk and found a blank piece of paper in a drawer to begin her letter.

She really did have nothing to say, though, so she wrote a short paragraph about her strange landlord, a brief description of the apartment, and reiterated the plans they had already made: she would go to her mother's house that day, play the act of a runaway daughter – a companion escapee from Valentine's madness – and write him again with an estimation of how long it would take to get the Mortal Cup from Jocelyn.

She contemplated telling her father about the Identity rune, but decided against it. She hadn't worked out the intricacies yet, not even in her mind, but she had a feeling that it could be dangerous. As she understood it, or _thought _she understood it, the rune had erased a part of her momentarily. It had taken away her sense of self, all the parts of her that had made her Seraphina. It wasn't until she created another self – Clarissa – that she had found herself again. She had created a new identity for herself by losing who she was before.

She imagined having the rune drawn on her without having known its purpose. Something told her she would have been lost in that black abyss forever – the nothingness of having no individuality, no sentience. Without her identity, she had been nothing at all. She had known what she had to do; she had known that she had to create something to fill that empty space, and she had created Clarissa. She was still Seraphina, at the core of herself. But Clarissa was a mask. More than a mask, she was like a cage – trapping Seraphina and her darkness and her secrets inside.

Clary imagined Valentine holding the power of that rune. He could use it on his enemies, if he wanted to; erase their identity and leave them helpless and meaningless and lost inside themselves. Worse, what if he figured out the second part of the rune, too? The creation of a different identity? He could force anyone to be whatever he wanted them to be. Even her and Jonathan. And he wouldn't shy away from using it, that much she knew.

She ended her letter where she had stopped – the outline of the plan they had made. She wasn't going to tell Valentine about the rune. Instead, she signed the letter "Clarissa."

She emptied her bag before she left again, looking forward to carrying less weight in her next venture through the city. She had drawn an expansion rune on it to give herself more room and not need to drag luggage around the city, but it hadn't done anything for the weight of the objects inside. As she found a place for her books and her other important possessions, she pondered the idea of a rune that would lessen the weight of something. She knew one didn't already exist, but maybe she could think of one. It seemed a bit mundane for an angelic rune, but she had thought of more pointless runes in her childhood.

With just her fairy dagger in a sheath on her hip, hidden under a black jacket that was too large for her, and her now nearly-empty backpack – holding only her sketchbook and some money – she deemed herself ready for her next walking trip. She saw her first neighbor on her way down the stairs – an Indian woman on the fifth floor – and gave her a small wave that was answered with a warm smile. But Clary wasn't there to make friends; a fact that she duly reminded herself of as she exited her apartment building. She wouldn't even be there very long – like she had told her father in her letter, she was going to Jocelyn's house that day, and she was confident that she would be able to get the Mortal Cup within a few days. She had always had a manipulative edge to her, subtle and sinister, and she knew she could get what she wanted from Jocelyn without much difficulty.

Clary might not have had much experience in the Mundane world, but she had enough common sense to know that her apartment wasn't in the nicest neighborhood. A group of young men were loitering near the front entrance, surrounded by a haze of smoke, laughing loudly and abrasively in a way that conveyed a belief in an illusion of indestructible strength, an over-estimation of their own importance. It was a common sentiment of mundanes, Valentine had often told her.

Unfortunately, her path brought her into their range of awareness as she was forced to walk past them. She hopped off of the curb to avoid them, but her efforts proved futile. "Hey, girl," one of them called, far too loudly considering how close she was to them, "You look lonely." His companions broke out in rude laughter.

She rolled her eyes and was relieved when they let her pass without further harassment, apparently finding her too aloof and unperturbed to be any fun. Only a single comment followed her retreat, a faint, "I'd break her in half" as she rounded the corner of her block.

The post office wasn't as far from her apartment as her portal had been. Upon reaching the address written in Valentine's letter, she found a small brick building on a narrow side street. A mundane walking past would see an abandoned, collapsing building adorned with a sign of warning regarding the building's frail infrastructure. But Clary saw a perfectly stable building with a sign that read "_Post Office in Basement." _Clary had never considered the idea of a supernatural post office, but for Downworlders and Nephilim who spent their lives coexisting with humans, she supposed it made sense to have one. In Idris, she supposed, _every _post office was a supernatural post office. City-dwellers had to be more creative.

The concrete steps to the lower-level were located outside, on the side of the building, and she peered through the window before entering. She was too short to see much – only harsh lighting and a high counter that looked unattended. Sighing, she pushed the door open. A bell on the door announced her arrival, breaking an unnerving silence. Clary approached the counter and had to wait a moment before an employee finally arrived – a slim warlock girl with sparkling pink hair and pale pink skin. For a moment, Clary was surprised, but she should have anticipated it would be a warlock. Mail was often sent via portal, and warlocks could create portals with the most ease.

The warlock regarded her coolly for a moment before drawling, "Can I help you?"

"I'm here to pick up a letter."

The girl reached under the counter and pulled up a bin full of envelopes, a pink hand poised to rifle through the pile. "Name?"

"Clarissa…" With a flash of nervousness, Clary realized she had never chosen a last name, and Valentine hadn't mentioned it either. She considered guessing, but had no idea where to start. Jocelyn or Valentine's names held far too much notoriety, so it couldn't be them. But there were countless Shadowhunter families.

Clary was relieved when the warlock began looking through the envelopes without waiting for a last name. "Clarissa Nightshade?" she asked, holding up an old-fashioned envelope adorned with cursive writing. Clary recognized the writing as Valentine's and confirmed "Yes, that's me."

The warlock slid the letter across the counter and Clary picked it up, shrugging her backpack off of one shoulder to open it and place the letter inside. She pulled out her letter for Valentine but didn't give it to the warlock when she held out a hand for it.

"Are you sending that?" the girl demanded.

"Yes," Clary said.

"Then give it to me and write the address on this form," the girl snapped, producing a clipboard with a sheet of paper listing addresses that had been crossed out in pink pen, assumedly for letters that had already been sent.

"I would rather… send it myself," Clary said, aware of how suspicious and strange she sounded but firm nonetheless. Valentine would kill her if she wrote their address on a public form, even if no one would know it was his.

The warlock rolled her eyes. "Portal's in the back, freak." She left then, ascending a staircase in the corner that Clary hadn't noticed before.

"The back" turned out to be a small, plain room cluttered with countless piles of letters and packages. A swirling portal occupied the back wall; no effort had been made to hide it with a curtain or a door. Clary, familiar with the process from a book she had once read, wrote the address of the manor on a small scrap of paper. She approached the portal to throw it inside and was startled when a small box flew out, hitting her shoulder. The box had only the initials "M. B." written in thick, black marker, but a strange noise emanated from within – something between a dying animal and a violin. When the box began to move, Clary nervously kicked it into a corner.

She threw the scrap of paper into the portal and watched as the vibrant spectrum of colors focused into a deep black hue. She wondered if all portals turned black that way or if it had something to do with the destination of her letter. Once the color had solidified, she threw her letter inside, watching it vanish in a flurry of sparks. Suddenly remembering something, she dug into her backpack for her sketchbook, flipping through the pages frantically before finding the Nickar drawing. She had forgotten to leave it with Jonathan.

She only had time to write three small words on the paper as she saw the portal begin to move again, dissolving into various colors. She threw in the paper just in time and saw the words "_I miss you" _consumed by light before they disappeared.

* * *

Back in her apartment, Clary opened the letter from her father to find a surprising amount of writing. She already knew what her instructions were; why had he written so much? Upon reading the first line of the letter, her questions were answered and her heart sank into her stomach, slow and heavy.

"_Seraphina,_" the letter read, "_After considering the intricacies of our situation, I've decided that your mission in New York will be more extensive than was initially planned._"

"No," Clary whispered, angry and dreading.

"_The recovery of the Mortal Cup remains a dominant priority. In addition, however, I require your assistance in collecting information on the Downworlders in New York. The information I desire is quite obvious and very important – the prominent figures in each group, the apparent leaders, and those who possess more power than most. You will report any and all findings to me, and I expect frequent updates. The necessity of this information will be revealed to you in due time. _

"_Pangborn and Blackwell will be in the city on occasion as well, but I do not dare trust them with this task. I know that you are capable of fulfilling this duty, and I expect that you will do it well. _

"_If all goes as planned, our plans will be ready to be set in motion within the next year, and our family will be whole once more._"

Clary was furious. She understood precisely the game that Valentine was playing with her and Jonathan. This "new" mission, the one that involved her staying in New York for up to a year instead a few weeks at most, had been his plan all along. He had known that had Jonathan and Clary understood this plan in the first place, they never would have consented to be apart for so long. He had manipulated them into believing their separation to be a short one and waited until it was too late for them to do anything to reveal the truth.

Her anger burned like fire through her veins, scorching, until the subduing drug of her own helplessness suffocated it, leaving her empty and cold. There was nothing she could do now, she knew. Once more, she resigned to do what Valentine had told her to do. She would do it as quickly as she could, but this mission wasn't just a trip to a woman's apartment. It was a full reconnaissance. It would take time and patience and strategy, and months of effort. And she would have to do all of it completely alone. Without Jonathan.

Adding to her anger was the feeling of unease and discomfort that had plagued her all day, growing stronger and stronger as minutes dragged on. She was yet unused to her new skin, and it felt disturbing against her own, sticky and clinging. She reached for the fairy dagger, drawing it from its sheath. She pulled her curtains shut and lifted up her shirt, finding the identity rune with ease. She pressed the blade against it and then sliced into her skin, hissing as she did. But her hiss turned into a sigh as her mask fell away from her, and she felt she could breathe again.

Seraphina lay down on her bed, weary and melancholy. Being Clary had been helpful throughout the day – she hadn't spent too much time dwelling on her family or her secrets or her past, like she normally did. And she hadn't let her volatile emotions get her into trouble, like she normally did. But it still didn't feel completely… _right. _Her secrets and her sadness were a part of who she was, and without them, Clary was left to exist as a faint, shallow mirror-image of Seraphina. But that shallowness and weakness meant she thought less, which was good.

Without Clary as a shield, the anguish of knowing she was truly alone crashed down on Seraphina like a crushing waterfall, drowning her. Her anger had consumed her before, but now it was only her sadness that kept her company, helpless and small, but consuming. She didn't want to be in this city alone. She didn't want to meet her mother, or talk to her, or pretend to love her. And she didn't want to be without her brother. And she didn't want him to be alone with her father.

Already she missed her brother, his cool darkness and his low, thoughtful voice and his rough affection. The place in her heart reserved for him was large and dark and aching. The bond that tethered them was stretched to its limits, and she felt as though the slightest sharp movement would sever it, so she lay in her bed in silence, just thinking about him. She wondered if he was alright. She wondered if Valentine's abuse had already begun. She wondered if he missed her as much as she missed him. She knew he did.

She allowed herself to wallow for several minutes, releasing her emotions so that they wouldn't be overwhelming when she inevitably needed to get to work. Warm tears slipped between her eyelids as she curled in on herself, silently sobbing. She was tired. She was so, so tired. Of the pain that ripped her chest apart, of the secrets that were driving her insane, and of obeying her father mindlessly, weakly; allowing him to force her into acts of abominable cruelty and betrayal.

It wasn't fair, she knew. But she also knew that there was nothing she could do. So she stifled her cries with determined breaths, straightened her limbs, and rose from her bed. She smoothed her hair and grabbed her stele. She pulled up her shirt to expose her ribcage and created the identity rune, directly over the scar where it had been before. She expected the sensation that followed, but it was jarring nonetheless; just as before, for a moment she was consumed by blackness, floating deep inside herself among her hidden, silent parts. But slipping into her new skin was easier this time, as she had already created it. It wasn't long before she had found herself again, slightly breathless but otherwise recovered.

A glance outside the window across the room told Clary it was nighttime. It was too late to go to Jocelyn's apartment, she decided. And, despite her anguish at Valentine's letter, meeting her mother was still the part of her mission that she was most dreading. So she went to the desk and picked up the first instructions her father had given her, before she had left home. She scanned the list of Downworlder haunts and their addresses, mentally categorizing them by order of importance. Earlier, she had been confused as to why Valentine had included such information. Now it made bitter sense.

Considering the late hour and the poor weather, she discounted a few of her options. She contemplated the others before she decided which one to try tonight. There was a place not far from her, and her father had written that it offered a location where Downworlders and mundanes mingled – unknowingly, on the mundanes' part. She figured that, given its size, it would be the easiest place to observe undetected, which was her intention for her first night. She didn't want to be noticed, only to get a feel for the supernatural atmosphere in the city.

Abiding by her wish to go unnoticed, she slipped on a plain, black dress that fell to the middle of her thighs and paired it with a pair of black tights. She forwent nice shoes for the boots she had worn all day. After concealing her fairy dagger and her stele, one in each boot, she left her apartment and began making her way to the Pandemonium Club in the cool night air.

* * *

She was sitting on a couch in one of the back corners of the club. There were no lights in the large building, aside from the multi-colored strobe lights that flashed at seizure-inducing speeds, but she guessed that if she could see better she would discover the couch to be old, dirty, and altogether unappealing. Sure enough, she could feel a tear in the rough cloth through the thin fabric of her tights, and the soft press of the foam that lay underneath.

Thus far, she hadn't seen anything worth noting. Her keen eyes could easily distinguish between the mundanes and the Downworlders, but she was surprised to see that they coexisted much more easily than she would have expected. Werewolf boys danced with mundane girls, and when the girls eventually spun away into the crowd they did so without feeling the press of teeth or claws on their vulnerable skin. Human boys bought drinks for vampire girls, and when the girls didn't drink them they didn't seem to notice.

Valentine had always portrayed Downworlders as inherently different, separate; beasts and monsters that couldn't control themselves. He conceded that a heart as gentle as Clary's could consider them victims, if they wished, but the danger they posed could not be ignored. But watching the crowd in front of her, Clary was faced with a very different reality to perceive, and she wasn't sure what to make of it.

Her reflection was interrupted when a laughing, drunken boy with spiked red hair collapsed on the couch at one end, bringing the count of the individuals on this couch up to 7 and pressing the boy next to her even harder against her body. It was unnerving to be this close to people, to feel their bare skin against hers, but she didn't mind it as much as she would under normal circumstances.

Clary hadn't been drunk in a while – not since her and her brother had drank their father's most expensive liquor in a fit of childish rebellion a few weeks ago. She enjoyed the feeling it brought, of being distant and hazy – pleasantly distant from a sadness that had grown pleasantly hazy. With the swirling lights and pulsing music, her light-headedness and the anonymity of her position in a dark, isolated corner of the room, surrounded by hundreds of people who knew nothing about her and spared her only the most fleeting of glances, she could almost pretend she was invisible. It was a nice feeling.

But she soon became aware of the eyes of the boy next to her, their ominous weight, and she shifted uncomfortably, suddenly aware of how close they were. She had been too preoccupied to notice before – staring at the strobe lights, the people, the glitter, endlessly fascinated by the pulsing motion and bright colors that existed in this place – but now she was acutely aware of his presence.

She glanced up at his eyes to find them looking down at her. His pupils were barely visible and his eyes were an unusual color with the lights flashing against them, but she still recognized the hungry look within them.

He leaned closer to her, a red strobe light flashing across his face and glinting against his white teeth as he smiled.

"If you're feeling too cramped," he said huskily. "You could sit on my lap."

Clary didn't reply, but continued to stare at him. He looked to be in his late teens or early 20's and he had messy, black hair. Objectively, he was attractive, but she wasn't looking to spend time with anyone. She had come here specifically because she was sure no one would take notice of her – with so much glitter and noise and substance abuse, she was sure no one would notice a small, thin girl wearing all black, who sat in the back corner and opted for simple under-age drinking instead of hardcore drugs.

The guy had realized by now that she wasn't going to answer him, but they were still staring at each other.

He leaned even closer to her, his lips against her ear, and said, "You're the prettiest little Shadowhunter I've ever seen."

Startled, she drew back, but there wasn't room for her to get very far away from him. All the flashing lights in the room suddenly tuned white, illuminating the club in bright luminescence for a weightless moment before a beat dropped in the music and they returned to their flashing, multi-colored frenzy. It was in that moment that she realized – it wasn't the lights making his eyes look so strange; they actually were strange – a deep purple color with slanted pupils, like a cat's.

Here, she had prided herself on being aware of the Downworlders surrounding her, and she hadn't noticed the warlock right next to her. And even worse, _he _had noticed _her. _But he didn't seem dangerous, she thought. A bit creepy with the comments, sure, but she didn't expect he was the type to murder someone for kicks. She smiled hesitantly at him, and his answering smile was far more exuberant.

Suddenly intrigued, she stopped pressing against the unconscious girl next to her to distance herself from him and instead relaxed slightly. Her father had told stories about all types of Downworlders and had told her that warlocks couldn't be trusted, that they were capricious and repulsive and damned. "Practically demons in full," he had proclaimed. But she had met two that day, and neither had seemed particularly demonic. The girl at the post office had been a bit supercilious, but she certainly wasn't the epitome of hell's evil.

The boy – warlock, she corrected herself – must have concluded that her silence meant she wasn't rejecting him, because he shifted closer to her, resting one arm on the couch behind her head and twisting his torso slightly towards her so that her shoulder was against his chest.

In her drunken absence of emotion, she realized vaguely that she should feel uncomfortable, especially since this was a Downworlder, but all she felt was a distant sense of curiosity.

"I'm Casper," he provided. "What's your name?"

"Clary," she responded. He was grinning at her, as if pleased that he had finally elicited a response from her.

"It's nice to meet you, Clary." His voice sounded like a purr.

Casper placed a warm hand on the skin of her thigh, just above her knee. A distant part of her mind told her that this adventure of Downworlder interaction had begun to go a bit too far, and that she should be getting off the couch and walking home to sleep things off. But she didn't move. Something about the predatory hunger in his gaze awakened something inside of her – an attraction to danger, a desire to be reckless. Suddenly, she felt like Seraphina again; her true self piercing through her mask like rays of bright light.

He leaned closer to her, his hand sliding up her thigh, and brought the arm that lay behind her forward, around her shoulder, his hand grasping the back of her neck. Now she couldn't move away, even if she wanted to. But she didn't, not really. He appealed to her, in a morbid way – the way all dangerous, unpredictable things appealed to her. She had no reason to believe that he was trustworthy, that he wouldn't hurt her or kill her, that he wasn't all of the things her father had told her Downworlders are.

Rather than frightening her as it should, that knowledge thrilled her and sent excitement surging through her veins. When his lips reached hers, she kissed him back without hesitation. Clary had kissed boys before – city boys from Alicante, boys who were in Idris to see family and were dreadfully bored – but never like this. This kiss was wilder, more feral, than anything she could remember. Not careful or sloppy or inexperienced; just raw and harsh and burning.

He pulled away with a dark laugh, his eyes boring into hers. "Clary," he murmured, "would you like to spend the night with me?"

For a moment, she hesitated. A part of her was intrigued by the idea, another nervous, another abhorrent – there were so many parts of her, fracturing her. But in her heart was a burning anger towards Valentine, though she had tried to repress it. And in her soul was a thirst for excitement that bedeviled her constantly with insatiable need, and she so rarely got the chance to feed it. And something about the dark glint in his eyes reminded her of Jonathan. So she nodded with a sly grin that Casper returned, and he enclosed her hand in his larger one and pulled her with him as he rose from the couch.

"Just the night," she said, leaning in so that he would hear her over the loud music.

"Just the night," he affirmed with a grin. "I'm not a fan of attaching strings."

Neither of them was keen on the idea of dancing in a crowd of sweaty mundanes, so they found a dark corner where they resumed drinking and made idle small talk. Casper claimed he was only 27, but Clary knew better than to take his word for it – warlocks were immortal; he could be 1,000 for all she knew. Despite occasionally reflecting on how bizarre the situation was, Clary found she liked Casper. He had a sharp with and a dark humor that was surprisingly compatible with her personality, and he was interesting to talk to. And he was a great kisser.

Clary wasn't sure how long they had been together, but she soon realized that she had drunk too much. Keeping up with a boy twice her size may not have been a good idea. But, even recognizing her vulnerability, she still didn't leave Casper. He was an intriguing mix of attraction and danger – interesting and charming enough to keep her interested, but with a sinister edge that made her slightly shaky.

"I'm glad you Shadowhunters are oblivious to mundane culture," Casper mused. "I'm tired of the "friendly ghost" jokes."

"The…What?" she asked.

He smiled and kissed her. And for a timeless moment, all she knew was him. But still she felt nothing in her heart; not a whisper, not even the slightest tremble – she never did. She was convinced that she never would. In a heart as broken and deprived as hers, the stirrings and shudders that plagued normal hearts were forever absent. But she still felt his strong arms around her, and his lips against hers, and the press of his tongue.

But all the while, her heart was a cold, dead thing in her chest – unresponsive, catatonic and heavy, a dead weight. She thought of a woman, one of many, who discovered that the child she had so lovingly and devotedly carried within her would be stillborn, and being told that it was too late to remove it. That happened, Clary had heard. And then those women had to carry their dead child inside of them, heartbroken, until they would finally go into labor and give birth to a corpse. Clary told herself it wasn't the same. She told herself to stop thinking such morbid thoughts. She did it too often.

She refocused on Casper. He was nice, she thought. Well, not _nice. _He wasn't kind; she could tell that much from the time she had spent with him. But he was nice for _her. _Darkness with a cool edge, just like her… and Jonathan.

When Casper pulled away from her, she tugged a lock of her hair to clear her thoughts. She forgot how rambling she became when she drank. At least she wasn't saying it out loud. Mimicking her, Casper reached for a lock of her hair, his hand against her waist before he gave the long strand a tug. It made her scalp sting. She smiled.

Sometime later, after more conversation and affection, Casper was nearly on top of Clary, and the hand that came down on his shoulder sent his chin jabbing into her collarbone. She winced but couldn't see who it was past Casper's broad shoulders.

"Casper!" an excited, male voice exclaimed. "Why didn't you tell me you were coming, you devil!"

"I'm busy," Casper snarled lowly over his shoulder.

"Ohh," several voices chorused – three, Clary thought, but they were all male so it was harder to discern.

"Is that the pixie from last week?" one of the voices asked, a different one than the first.

Pale blue eyes emerged from behind Casper's shoulder, trying to see her. "Sure looks like a pixie," he remarked. "Hey, pretty little thing." He stuck a finger over Casper's shoulder and brought it towards Clary's face, but Casper bit it before he could touch her.

"Ouch!" The boy yelled. "That wasn't very _friendly _of you, Casper." The group of them laughed. Clary remembered Casper's comments about "friendly ghost" jokes and wished she was more in the loop.

"Alright, you win," Casper spat, shifting to sit next to Clary instead. He draped an arm over her shoulders. "This is Clary. She isn't a pixie. What do you want?"

"Just a good time, Cas," the blue-eyed man said. Now that Clary could see, she saw that he had dark brown hair and there were too men behind him – one with black hair like Casper's and dark eyes, and one with auburn hair and green eyes. They all looked fairly young, but Clary would guess they were still a few years older than her.

"Tonight's going to be great, I can feel it," the guy continued, his eyes alighting with charisma and charm. "You have to join us! Bring your friend."

Casper sighed. "Alright, alright. Just… give me a minute."

The trio departed then, moving over to the bar.

"I don't think you want to hang around these guys, Clary. I can find you tomorrow instead. I know said only one night, but…" He examined her for a moment, then smiled slyly and leaned in to kiss her neck. "I like you."

"I like you too," Clary said, but she wasn't sure if she meant it as much as he did. "But…" she started and then stopped, unsure if she was making a good decision or a horrible mistake. But soon she said the words anyway, feeling herself plunge over an edge with them, "I want to stay with you and your friends."

"Really?" Casper was disbelieving, but he seemed pleased too, a slow smile spreading across his lips. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'm sure," Clay said. But she wasn't sure. She had gone out only to observe that night, and already things had gone much further than she intended. But she had never been the type to take things slowly. She dove into everything headfirst, without a backward glance, reckless and passionate and consumed. She had always been that way, and even with her new name she hadn't changed.

So she was charming and composed when Casper introduced her to his friends – Felix, the leader with brown hair; Isaac, the one with black hair; and Declan, the one with auburn hair. And she didn't flinch when they made fun of her small size and called her "Pixie." And she kept up with their jokes and their conversations. And it wasn't long before they liked her instead of just tolerating her as their friend's date.

There were moments when she lost herself a bit – she knew nothing of popular culture, or the other people they mentioned, or even much about the way people acted here – but she was clever enough to hold her own. And she was learning a bit about the Downworlders in New York, just like her father had asked.

Felix and Declan were vampires and Isaac was a werewolf. She knew it wasn't normal for members of different species to get along in such a close-knit group – it was especially strange for there to be two vampires and a werewolf – but something about the young men told Clary that they were misfits. It was normal for Downworlders to be a bit… morally ambiguous. It was in their nature to live on the fringes of society. But then there were those who lived on the fringes even of Downworlder society, and it was Downworlders of that order that Clary found herself spending the night with. In their every action they possessed an air of menace, an inclination to rebellion against even the pettiest of rules. They were dangerous, she knew, and she had the feeling that her experience with them would likely have been far different if she had met them under different circumstances.

She had a feeling that Casper and his friends were exactly the type of Downworlder her father wanted information about. And she also guessed that they were exactly the kind of people she could get along with.

But Felix, especially, was dangerous. His sense of humor was bitter and morbid, his demeanor caustic and callous. He observed the people around him with an unforgiving, predatory gleam in his eyes, the kind of look that came from an ingrained sense of cruelty and years of hunting people, murdering them. And when his eyes were fixated on Clary, depraved and sinister, she felt a fluttering fear in her chest that made her heart race.

It seemed that, in the Pandemonium Club, the later it got, the greater the Downworlder influence became. Soon, the club was employed by both humans and Downworlders, and the Downworlders were adept at spotting their own. Felix leaned over the bar, whistling at a fairy girl who was walking past. When she stopped and turned, he beckoned her closer and whispered in her ear for a suspiciously long time.

Clary looked at Casper, but he was laughing with Isaac about something, and Declan was busy with a girl that had walked up to him a while ago. Clary was the only one who had noticed Felix's exchange with the fairy. Noticing her attention on him, he pulled back from the fairy girl to wink at her. She shivered lightly at the sensation of his gaze on her skin, and Casper tightened an arm around her in response but didn't look away from Isaac.

The fairy girl walked away and returned a few minutes later with five drinks in very small glasses. She set them in front of Felix and he shot her a charming smile that she ignored. Felix walked around his friends to reach Clary's side. She shifted away from him. "No need to be suspicious, love," he whispered in her ear. "I was only ordering us something to drink."

Casper, turning away from Isaac, saw Felix's proximity to Clary and narrowed his eyes.

"Oh, what's going _on_?" Felix demanded. "Casper brings a girl around and suddenly nobody trusts me?" He was shouting, but he was also smiling, a thin veil of relaxation and amiability hovering over his baleful edge. "Relax, Cas," he said, throwing an arm over Casper's shoulder and jostling both Clary and Casper in the process. "You just met her. She's practically fair game," he proclaimed with another wink.

"Now," Felix continued, passing each of them a glass, "Drink up, and let's get this night started back up again, shall we?"

Each drink was a different color, and the one he passed to Clary was pink. Casper had already drunk his – a teal mixture – and nudged Clary when he saw hers untouched. "Don't you want it?" he asked.

"I… think I've had enough," she told him quietly. And it was true, she had.

"Oh, they aren't alcoholic," he explained, "They're fairy potions. Very popular with Downworlders."

"What do they do?" she asked.

"Depends on which one you got."

"I don't know…" she said. She didn't want to seem like a downer – the more she got to know these boys, the more she figured getting to know them would be beneficial – but she didn't trust Felix either. She didn't know which potion he had given her, and she wasn't sure she wanted to find out.

"Felix isn't as bad as he seems," Casper assured her, reading her thoughts. "He's not a great guy, I know, but he wouldn't hurt you. Go on, drink it."

She complied with his urging, picking up the glass and drinking the mixture in a few long sips. It tasted much better than she had anticipated it would, almost like strawberry milk, but creamier. Casper stroked the skin of her shoulder with his thumb and smiled, leaning in to kiss her cheek. "Not so bad, is it?" he asked.

"Not so bad," she agreed. And for several moments, she didn't feel any different. But then a strange sensation against her leg startled her, and she looked down, but nothing was there. But then it came again – a searing heat pressing against her skin through the skin of her tights. Confused she reached down, into her boot, and found that it was the faerie dagger – it was warm to the touch, and it seemed to be heating up. She wondered if it was because she had consumed something faerie or if there was something wrong with it.

Before she could ponder it further, Casper wrapped an arm around her again, and she found herself feeling a bit strange. It felt like a cloud was forming over her mind, gray and hazy. Every time she moved or spoke it dissipated suddenly only to reform once more, stronger and quicker each time. Minutes passed by and her mind grew more and more foggy.

A boy leaned in towards her and said something in her ear. "Are you coming?" he asked. _Where?_ she thought. _And with who?_ She recognized his voice – low and deep. She let him pull her to her feet and guide her with an arm around her waist. Then she remembered his name – Cassius. No, that wasn't it. Casper. His name was Casper.

He was saying something to her. A name, she thought. "Clary." He said it over and over again, and she wondered what she was supposed to do. Was he trying to find Clary? She didn't know how to help him. She felt a nagging sensation in her mind, like she was forgetting something. He said the name again and shook her lightly, his purple eyes wide and worried.

_Purple eyes? _she repeated, alarmed. That wasn't possible. People didn't have purple eyes. She shook her head to clear her thoughts, but this time the cloud didn't move. It stayed, obscuring everything as if it were an opaque shield encasing everything in her mind, trapping her on the outside.

"What did you do to her?" a boy was yelling at another young man his age. The boy with pale blue eyes laughed and shrugged his shoulders. The black-haired boy continued yelling, and she suddenly felt like she was intruding. She didn't want to stand there, watching strangers argue. It seemed rude. So she inched away slowly. They didn't notice when she slipped into the crowd, out of their sight.

She was alone for a while, drifting in between and past people. She moved through time like a ghost, confused and empty. She knew she had a name, and memories, but they had escaped her and she couldn't bring them back.

Sometime later, a hand on her shoulder startled her, and she turned to find a handsome young man with brown hair and pale blue eyes looking at her. He pushed her backwards until her back was against a wall. He leaned forward to speak in her ear over the loud music. "You don't know your name, do you?" he asked, and something about the tone of his voice made her shiver. She shook her head; no, she didn't know her name.

"It's alright," he said to her. "I can help you remember." His hands slid down to her hips. "I'm your friend. You know me." He said those words against the skin of her neck, and the sensation was strange and unwelcome. She didn't feel like she could trust him. But if she didn't know him, then how would he know that she had lost her memory? She had to know him. He must be telling the truth.

But that knowledge didn't console her like she thought it should. His hands were gripping her so tightly it was painful, and his eyes glinted with a violent hunger that a part of her recognized – the part she still couldn't reach, though now it was whispering to her, telling her to run. She tried, but he pushed her back into the wall.

"Don't you want me to help you?" he reprimanded lowly.

"No," she whispered.

"Yes, you do," he muttered, and he brought his lips to her neck. "I've been able to smell your blood all night," he groaned against her skin. "I've never encountered anything like it. Like the nectar of heaven." He pulled back to smirk at her menacingly. "Makes sense, doesn't it?" But she didn't know what he meant. What did he mean, he could _smell _her blood? That wasn't possible. She noticed drops of blood on the collar of his shirt. She wondered if she wasn't his first victim that night.

Fear was tearing its claws through her chest, but she was helpless. He brought his lips back to her neck, and for a moment he was kissing her, harsh and hungry. It hurt, and she knew she would have bruises if she lived. But then he slowed, moving even closer to her. He paused, and she felt his heavy breath against her skin. And then she felt it – a sharp edge brushing along the tender skin of her neck. She shivered at the same time he did. Now there were two sharp points, pressing against her skin. He brought his head closer, closer, and the pressure increased until his fangs almost broke skin.

But then a noise interrupted them. "Felix!" an angry voice shouted. "What the hell are you doing?"

"Felix" backed away from her but didn't move his hands, still holding her against the wall. "What does it _look _like I'm doing?" he snarled.

A boy with shaggy brown and hair and kind, brown eyes was staring at them, alarmed. "Something you shouldn't be doing," he answered.

"Leave it, Simon. I'm warning you." Felix certainly did look dangerous, with fangs still protruding past his lips and blood on his shirt. But the boy – Simon – didn't falter.

"There are Shadowhunters here, you know," Simon said. "I saw them earlier. You'd be smart to be more careful."

She couldn't keep up with what they were saying. Everything was vaguely familiar to her, but in a way that she couldn't understand. The word "Shadowhunter" caused a tug in her chest, but she didn't know why.

"And _you'd _be smart not to get in my way," Felix spat, but he finally backed away from her. "You only became a vampire a few weeks ago. It's a bit early to have enemies."

Once more, she found the words slipping through her mind and then out once more, leaving her endlessly confused and dazed. She couldn't comprehend anything, only short, fragmented thoughts that burst through her mind too quickly for her to process them.

Felix must have gone, because he wasn't in front of her anymore. The boy who had fought with him – Sam – Simon – was there instead, concerned. "Did he hurt you?" he asked. She didn't know, so she didn't answer. His brow furrowed. "What's your name?" he asked gently.

"I don't know," she said, because she didn't.

Now he looked truly alarmed. "Are you okay?" he said. "Did you… Did you take something?"

She was distracted by a girl behind Simon, a beautiful girl in a beautiful white dress. She had dark hair and dark eyes, contrasting against pale skin in a way that set her apart from the others around her.

"Did he give something to you?" Simon was demanding, "Something to drink, or – or, a pill or something?"

She didn't know what he was talking about. A bright light flashed from above them, illuminating the crowd in white for a weightless moment. When it did, she saw dark tattoos on the beautiful girl's skin, swirling and winding. She felt her heart lurch when she looked at them, like they meant something important. She stared at them, catching only glimpses as the girl moved through the crowd. The longer she stared, the louder the whispers became – the whispers that spoke from the place she could no longer reach, the things she had forgotten.

Simon said he was going to get help from someone he knew, and that he would be right back, but she barely heard him. She found herself moving towards the girl as soon as he had gone, almost against her will, the marks on the girl's skin beckoning her forward like whispered urgings. She noticed that the girl wasn't alone – she was leading a boy with blue hair through the crowd, occasionally turning around to throw him a sly grin or a charming smile.

She was dismayed when they entered a room and closed the door behind them. Something told her it would be a bad idea to follow them. But then two boys – one light, one dark – emerged from the darkness and opened the same door, slipping inside before they closed it again. And before they closed it, she saw the same marks on their skin – just as powerful, just as beautiful, whispering to her just as enticingly. She didn't know who or where she was, or what was happening, but she knew that whatever those marks were was a part of her, a part of something important.

So she approached the door, uncertain and afraid of what she would find inside. But whatever it was, she knew it was important. And it called to her, softly but alluringly. So she reached a hand forward to the doorknob, grasping it tightly before, finally, turning it and opening the door.

* * *

Jace Wayland was having an awful night. He had gone out hunting with Alec and Isabelle, hoping to entertain himself, but it had taken them hours before they encountered even a single demon. And when they finally did, Alec and Isabelle had agreed that Isabelle should lure it in on her own. Hours waiting for a demon, and then Isabelle got to have all of the fun. It was a travesty.

And now, the demon wasn't even fighting back. It was sniveling and begging from where it lay ensnared in Isabelle's whip, attempting to dissuade them from murdering it with promises of information about Valentine. It seemed as though every demon Jace had killed the past few weeks thought it knew something about Valentine's return, but instead knew only petty rumors that had probably been started somewhere in Downworld as a sick joke. Jace told the demon as much, but it pressed on, insistent.

"I'm telling the truth, Shadowhunter. Valentine has returned," the demon spat. "He was never truly gone. He was regaining his strength, waiting, and now he's ready. And you will all feel his wrath." Jace scoffed, and the demon grew more frantic in its attempts at persuading them.

"I have heard whispers," it said breathlessly. "And all say that New York will be his first target. Already, his warriors and assassins slink into the city, doing their master's work. He has eyes and ears and swords everywhere. This city is damned. It's just like before."

Logically, Jace knew it was impossible, and he maintained his demeanor of cool disdain. But deeper within him, in depths he rarely visited, he felt a stirring of something dark and ominous, and he tried his best to ignore it. He had noticed things in the city in recent weeks – an excess of demons that seemed to come from nowhere, Downworlder corpses mysteriously littered in dark alleys, and the press of a heavy weight over every building and every street, an atmosphere of ominous foreboding. But it wasn't because of Valentine, he told himself; it couldn't be.

Suddenly, a door slammed open behind them. Jace whirled around, Isabelle and Alec following suit almost as quickly, to see a girl standing in the doorway with a shocked expression. The Shadowhunters stood in stunned silence for several moments, none of them knowing how to react.

"What are _you_ doing?" Isabelle finally demanded, masking her confusion at the girl's presence with a countenance of cool disdain as she sized up the girl in front of her.

A part of Jace, still caught up in the near euphoric impulsivity that dictated his actions during battle, wanted to laugh at Isabelle's petty preoccupation with the pretty girl in front of them when they were in the middle of something so important, but he fought the urge. While Isabelle's motives in confronting the girl were more superficial than strategic, it wouldn't be smart to discount the girl as a threat before they were sure what her intentions were, so he followed Isabelle's example and resolved to a brief examination of the girl at the door before returning to the demon behind them.

The girl had red hair, a deep shade of crimson that sparkled with the glittery silver dust that was often thrown by drunken dancers from the balconies of the Pandemonium. A simple, long-sleeved black dress over black tights emphasized the paleness of her skin and made the wide green eyes, now staring at them in stunned confusion, appear bizarrely vivid. Jace turned his attention to more practical details and noted that she was short and very slender, though her long arms and legs made her appear somewhat taller than she was. Upon noticing her slight, delicate form, Jace subconsciously discounted her as a threat and turned back to the demon behind them; they could deal with the girl later.

Once he was facing the demon, however, he noted with alarm that it had already untangled itself from Isabelle's whip and was prepared to launch itself in his direction. He let out a warning shout to Alec and Isabelle, both still staring at the red-haired girl, as the demon sprang from the floor and straight at Jace, teeth bared. Jace rolled backwards as he felt the demon slam into his chest, trying to lessen the force of the blow and somehow use momentum to get the upper hand. Jace twisted in mid-air as he and the demon fell together, briefly catching a glimpse of Isabelle springing forward to reach her whip where it lay coiled on the grimy tiled floor.

As Jace twisted to land on top of the demon, the clawed hand that had clutched his chest caught on his shirt and raked three angry marks into his skin. Jace hissed in anger, shoving the demon away with brutal strength. Alec and Isabelle were prepared, waiting just behind where the blue-haired demon landed with a vicious snarl. With a snap of her whip, Isabelle had the demon writhing on the floor once again. As the demon made an attempt to rise once more, Jace leaped and plunged a blade into its chest, and it died with a horrible screech as it collapsed into black smoke.

Alec rushed over to aid Jace where he stood unsteadily on his feet, blood already dripping from the gruesome wounds on his chest and staining the brown tiles below.

A gasp drew Jace's attention to the doorway, where the red-haired girl still stood. Alec spared a seething glare in her direction before setting to work applying an iratze to Jace's heavily marked skin. A strange light ignited in the girl's intense green eyes as she observed Alec creating the rune, but before Jace could determine what it was Isabelle distracted the girl with irate accusation.

"What the hell is your problem?" she exclaimed, and the girl turned away from Jace to meet Isabelle's furious expression. "You almost got Jace killed!"

The girl's eyes widened and she turned back to Jace, no longer appearing shocked but instead remorseful. She glanced at the grisly gouges that marred the skin of his chest before meeting his eyes nervously. Jace had been prepared to make a customary sarcastic remark – most likely on the extreme improbability of his demise, though he hadn't fully decided yet – but the words froze in his throat as he was briefly stunned by her eyes. They were a green unlike he had ever seen in someone's eyes; deep and dark, with a vibrant intensity that glimmered through dark lashes.

The girl was beautiful, Jace could see that much. But her eyes disturbed a deep, secret part of him, sending ripples through the core of his being. There was a darkness in them that called out softly, beckoning, and he found his heart answering it against his will. He shivered, unnerved, and wished she would stop looking at him. So he kept his comment to himself – a first, for him – in an attempt to allow her attention to divert somewhere else.

Suddenly, a loud voice interrupted the silence that had fallen upon them – a silence that, to Jace, had begun to grow eerie and ominous. "Pixie? Pixie!" a male voice shouted, searching, and the chorus of other voices answered his, all screaming "Pixie!" The door to the room was thrown open, and a boy with brown hair and blue eyes stuck his head in. Upon seeing the girl, his eyes widened in relief and he turned around to shout, "She's in here!"

He turned back to them and smiled crookedly, revealing sharp fangs that glinted in the moonlight. "Sorry to bother you. I see you got one though, good work," he remarked upon seeing the dark stain on the tiles where the demon had died.

"That wouldn't be human blood on your shirt, would it?" Alec said icily. "Because you know nonconsensual feeding on humans is illegal, and even _more _illegal when you do it in public."

"No one said anything about nonconsensual, mate. And besides, its… ketchup."

Alec rolled his eyes. But before he could say anything more, a young man pushed his way past the vampire and entered the room frantically. "There you are!" he exclaimed, and grabbed the red-haired girl's arm. "Where did you go? What are you doing here?" he demanded, but she only looked at him strangely and didn't answer.

Upon closer inspection, Jace saw that he was a warlock, and suspicion grew in his chest. If the girl knew warlocks and vampires, then why was she surprised at the sight of Shadowhunters doing what they always did? But then again, it almost looked like she _didn't _know the boys who had come looking for her. She was looking between the two of them now, like she was trying to remember something, and slowly edging away from them.

"Come on," the warlock said, stepping closer to take her arm again. "Let's go."

"Hold on," Jace said. "What's going on here? How do you know her?"

"Leave it alone," the warlock snarled. "It's none of your concern. We can handle it."

He wrapped an arm around the girl's tiny waist and pulled her behind him as he made his way to the door. Jace stepped forward, the sense that something wasn't right clawing at his stomach, but Alec put a hand on his chest. "They said they can handle it," Alec muttered.

"But…" Jace began, but he found he didn't have a rational reason for wanting to follow them.

"But what, Jace?" Alec demanded, mirroring his own uncertainty. "What do you want to do? Follow them? Fight them until they leave her alone? And then what would you do with her? We're as confused as you are," Isabelle nodded at that, "but there's nothing we can do. We can talk to Hodge; maybe he'll think of something. Until then, it doesn't matter. We killed the demon, there was no harm done, and she's gone."

"And I'm hungry," Isabelle announced. And that was the end of it. They left the Pandemonium Club and its colorful loudness behind in favor of the cool, night air. Jace's eyes scanned every face they passed, looking for the girl or the men she was with, but they were nowhere to be found. They had vanished, like smoke, into the night.

* * *

Later that night, lying in his bed in the Institute, Jace thought about the girl again. He couldn't make any sense of anything that had happened – where she had come from, why she had seen them but not known what they were, where she had gone. And above all, he couldn't make sense of how he had felt around her. He had felt her darkness – only for a moment, but he had felt it, a strange moment of closeness with a stranger, the strange sense that he had felt a secret part of her. Since then he had tried to deny it to himself over and over – it was impossible, he knew, to have a connection of any kind with someone you had never met. For Jace, connections were nearly impossible with people he _did _know. That girl meant absolutely nothing to him (_lie, _a voice whispered). She wasn't that pretty (_lie, _it came again). But he repeated the phrases over and over again; their words wearing paths into his minds as he hoped for them to sound more real the more he said them.

Hodge had been asleep when Jace and his siblings had returned from Taki's after their late meal, but Jace intended to be awake as soon as Hodge was to ask about the girl. A part of him hoped that Hodge would ask him to look into it and find her again. And another part of him knew that it didn't matter what Hodge said – he was going to find her anyway.

* * *

**Still confused about the identity rune? Found another huge mistake? Want to punch me in the face for making you wait so long for Jace? Or, the ever simple 'liked it' or 'hated it.' ****Let me know, please.**

**Yes, in this story, Simon is already a vampire. Maybe I'll go into how it happened and maybe I won't, but it's just easier this way (for me). **

**I could have just read the City of Bones scene where Clary finds the Shadowhunters in the Pandemonium and copied it here, but I didn't feel like it. So the scene I wrote is likely different (and shorter). Sorry. For all intents and purposes, though, the same thing happened, just for different reasons.**

******Thanks for reading! I hope you enjoyed it. Please let me know what you thought.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Man, I haven't updated this fast in a long time. Despite the comparatively short wait, I worked really, _really _hard on this chapter. **

**Thanks for reading and reviewing the last chapter! I tried to answer everyone's review, but I have a feeling that I might have missed one or two people. If I did, I'm really sorry. I promise I appreciated it, even though I didn't tell you personally. I didn't mean to skip you. I've just lost control of my life.**

**There were two guests who left reviews that warranted responses, so I guess I'll answer them here. **

**First guest: Yes, Clary is a very capable fighter, and in a sense I understand what you mean when you said you didn't expect that kind of mistake from her. But, in my story, Clary is also reckless, impulsive, and more than a bit self-destructive. Those sides of her will become a bit more evident as the story goes on. She was in a very unfamiliar situation that her father threw her into without preparing her for, and it had a very bad outcome. Reading this back to myself, it sounds a bit snotty, but I really don't mean it to! I appreciate the criticism, really. I just thought I'd provide a bit of an explanation, because her actions made sense to me. **

**Another guest (Leila) asked me why I took the link to my tumblr down on my profile. My tumblr is really, really personal, and I don't think any of you are actually interested in knowing me that way. I mentioned a few times that I wouldn't mind answering questions or comments relating to this story on my blog, but no one seemed interested in that. It's not that I don't ****_want _****you to be able to see it, it just seemed like you didn't want to. If my judgment was off and someone actually is interested in it, feel free to ask and I'd be happy to give it to you. But I'm kind of an awful person, and you probably wouldn't like me, and that's why I took it down in the first place. Also because it's dark and weird. And I take really dumb pictures of myself. And my URL is stupid. I'm going to start the chapter now.**

**Just kidding, not yet. If you're interested in listening to music while you read, I recommend "Together We Will Live Forever" by Clint Mansell, particularly for Felix's portion of the chapter, but it fits for the rest too. It's what I listened to when I wrote. Not to sound desperate, but I really would recommend it. It epitomizes the mood. It's a classical piece so it shouldn't be too distracting. **

**This one is for the homies who were disappointed in Clary for getting fairytale-roofied. **

* * *

_"I dreamed you, I wished for your existence." — Anaïs Nin_

Simon Lewis had never been in love.

Simon was pleasant – not overly friendly or prone to flattery, but charismatic and friendly enough to get by with a decent amount of friends. Simon was also attractive – not ostentatiously handsome or striking, but with symmetrical features and gentle eyes that allowed him to get by with a decent amount of girls. Yet still, through his entire life, he had been plagued by the insistent feeling that there was something missing. And as he got older, he began to think that maybe that the something was really a some_one_.

Simon had friends. But he had never had a _best_ friend. Simon went on dates. But he had never had a girlfriend. He had never had someone who understood his sense of humor, who he could be himself with, who was unfailingly loyal to him and who never tired of spending time with him. And as the years went on and his childhood faded into adolescence, this manifested itself in a feeling that he didn't belong anywhere, and he never would.

He almost wasn't surprised when he realized what had happened to him that night. For a long time he couldn't even remember it – he remembered leaving a party and the cold night air against his bare skin, the dizzy feeling in his mind and the way his drunken thoughts swirled into themselves over and over. He remembered footsteps behind him and then a shadow in front of him. A hand closing around his throat and his back slamming into a brick wall.

An abandoned, decrepit hotel with bloodstained walls. Their sadistic laughs and the way their eyes glinted in the moonlight. And after that, all he could remember was pain. Sharp teeth sinking into his skin. The uncomfortable, unnatural dragging sensation of his blood leaving his body.

He had stared at the moon through a hole in the roof for a long time as the world around him faded away like smoke. And he was fading with it, his memories and his thoughts dissipating into nothingness like dying stars, sparkling and broken. And even in the last moments of his life, he experienced no soaring epiphanies or exalting memories. Only an overwhelming, accepting awareness of his own insignificance. Of the utter meaninglessness of everything he had ever thought or said or felt. It was a sobering thought to die with, but he had accepted it; the world wasn't a fantastic place, filled with magic or adventure or excitement. Not for him. He was just a boy, an average boy of average appearance, with mediocre talent and mundane thoughts and boring experiences. And he would disappear from the world in the same fashion he had lived in it – without drama or fanfare or recognition, unnoticed and unimportant.

But then he awoke, reborn. He awoke to a world of eternal night, alone and in pain, and empty. The feeling of his dead heart, so still and cold in his chest, was the worst feeling he had ever felt, and he probably would have cried if he could. But instinct drove him to claw his way from a deep, cold grave. Instinct, along with a burning desire born from the cool passivity of his death, from his realization that he had lived his life as a meaningless figure in a meaningless world. A desire to be _more_, in every sense. As his fingers tore into cool earth, clawing his way back into the world, he resolved that the next time he died, it wouldn't be meaningless. He promised himself that he would do important, stimulating things, and as a result he would become an important, stimulating person.

A girl was waiting for him in the world above, and she explained what had happened. They would have let him stay dead, she told him, but they needed numbers. A coven war last winter had claimed the lives of their greatest fighters, and there were whispers, she told him. Whispers of a dead man come back to life, a man who would kill them all if he could, and burn the world to ashes.

He could live freely for the most part, she told him, but he couldn't kill humans ostentatiously, and he couldn't leave the city without formal permission. And if Valentine arose, like the whispers said he would, Simon would be called to fight.

It hadn't happened yet. The whispers persisted, but most people disregarded them and went about their lives as self-absorbedly and zealously as they had before. Simon wanted to disregard them too. But he felt a change in the air – it was darkness and ominousness and foreboding incarnate. He wondered if it was the man everyone whispered about, or if he only felt it because he lived in a world of darkness now. A world he hadn't known existed before, but that now he couldn't escape.

He dwelled on these thoughts and memories as he sat in a dark bar, the place where most vampires spent most nights, sipping on unpleasantly stale blood. He was mocked and ridiculed for his decision to abstain from drinking from humans. And he knew that it would be far more pleasant if he gave in to his instincts and his dark desires, and sank his fangs into some poor soul's neck to feed his eternal thirst. But he couldn't do it. He had tried it once, driven by pain and loss and hunger, but the instant his fangs had sunk into her neck he felt a phantom pain, the same sensation he had suffered on the night of his death and the same sensation he must have just inflicted on her. The sensation of blood, of life and warmth, being torn away from you viciously by a demon of the night. So he had retracted his fangs and let her go.

Someone else had taken her as soon as he left her – Lucas, he thought – and so she met the same fate she would have anyway. But Simon didn't regret his decision and he hadn't changed his mind about it yet. He didn't have the heart of a killer. So instead of sustaining himself with blood and the company of his fellow vampires, he sustained himself on memories and fantasies. Mostly memories. Memories of his childhood, of his family, of the few friends he had. He still had friends, he told himself, and a family. But it was different. He wasn't of their world anymore, and it made things more different than could be solved. He would have to leave them eventually, he knew. And as that realization grew more and more prominent in his mind, he had begun to fantasize about a future instead.

He thought about meeting interesting people and going to interesting places. And perhaps, finally, meeting "the person", as the idea had come to be referred to in his mind. The person he had imagined for himself, who would understand him and make his existence less meaningless. He was thinking about that person more than he normally would. Because the night before, he had met a girl. And he swore – it sounded insane, but he was positive – when he saw her, his heart had jumped. He couldn't discern if the movement had been physical or something else, but he knew that it was _real. _

And then, like fate, or something similarly idealistic and romanticized, the girl walked into the bar at the same moment she drifted through his thoughts. She had hair the color of blood and eyes the color of a deep forest on a summer night. She looked straight at him, _into _him, her gaze piercing and intuitive and almost invasive. She walked across the room, with purpose and grace. He saw hungry eyes follow her – hungry in more ways than one – and he felt a flash of instinctual disapproval before he realized he was no better. He was watching her too, hungry too. And he felt it again – his heart moved. Just a small shudder, the faintest stirring, but Simon felt it clearly, poignantly, deeply.

His eyes widened when she arrived at the empty seat next to him and stopped, not sitting but instead leaning against the bar with a careless, dangerous poise. For a moment she only gazed at him, her eyes an impossibly dark, eerie shade of green, and he knew that his heart would be racing if it could. She was very… intense, he decided. The way her eyes glowed in the low lighting, the way she was looking at him. She was unnervingly silent and perfectly still, but somehow she was more present in her inactivity than most people ever were. He felt the essence of her pressing against the edges of his psyche, concentrated and poignant.

He wondered how she knew where to find the vampires – he hadn't seen anyone but vampires in this place for as long as he could remember. But he didn't ask, because she was beautiful and he was awkward and he wasn't confident in the likelihood that he would make it out of the exchange without embarrassing himself.

After a few moments of polite conversation – she was very charming, go figure – she asked him where to find Felix. Simon felt his fangs extend at the sound of the name. Or maybe it was the scent of her blood, golden and rich but tinged with a heady darkness that made it paradoxically intoxicating. He decided to believe it was just the name.

He hesitated only a moment before telling her, because the answer was a rather shady part of the city that wasn't kind to strangers – especially strangers who weren't Downworlders. But, despite his first encounter with her and the slenderness of her frame, Simon knew, without knowing how, that this girl could take care of herself. Her dress the night before had hidden the tattoos and scars that crisscrossed each other over her pale skin, but now he saw them and understood. He hadn't seen many Shadowhunters, and he hadn't met one before her, but he had heard enough to know that Felix had made a fatal mistake in crossing her. And he knew enough of bloodlust to recognize the look in her eyes.

Before she left, she thanked him for what he had done for her and he mumbled that he would have done it for anyone. It was true, he would have. But he was glad he had done it for _her_. Because as he spoke to her, watched her dark green eyes flash with emotions too complex and foreign for him to comprehend, watched her flick crimson hair over her shoulder with a delicate hand, he felt like he was on the verge of waking up. Like he was moving closer and closer to something important, but that escaped him still – trapped behind impenetrable opacity.

So when she hesitated before leaving, a strange look in her eyes, and asked to see him again, he said yes without hesitation. And he smiled, and she smiled back before she left. And he felt his dead heart swell with light.

* * *

_"Love is, that you are the knife which I plunge into myself." – Franz Kafka_

Felix Alistair had been in love once.

When a heart beat in his chest and blood pumped through his veins, when his skin and his soul had known the light of the sun, he had fallen in love with girl. She had hair the color of blood and eyes the color of the ocean. In his youthful heart, her every word was a song and her every motion a dance.

He saw her for the first time on the first night of summer, and she seemed a radiant, effervescent glow of beauty and fantasy in the moonlight. It was like a scene in one of Shakespeare's plays – when he first saw her, he fell in love, and she smiled because she knew. That was all she did that night – she smiled at him, slow and alluring. But it was enough; enough to sink merciless, venomous claws into his heart that would drag him and compel him and never let him go. And when he saw her again, she did more than smile, and then it was his mind that was captured too.

She whispered dark fantasies in his ear, luring him into darkness with an intoxicating touch and an inexplicable allure. She would endlessly flit into and out of his arms, fickle and phantom. At first she was a diamond-faceted enigma, full of secret parts and shadows. And he would spend all day thinking of her, wishing that he was intimately aware of every part of her. She came to him in the night with silver-pale skin and her flashing white teeth. She kissed him and held him and he knew that the world was more beautiful for having her in it, and his life was more meaningful for having encountered such a vibrant, blistering soul; such fierce, unrestrained beauty.

But his drunken haze of lovesick adoration didn't last more than a single, whirlwind summer before he saw her true self. He didn't expect to find the cruelty under her charming smile. He didn't expect to find malevolence behind her ocean eyes. He didn't expect the merciless violence she wrought with her slender, delicate hands. And he didn't expect to find the sharp fangs concealed behind her full pink lips.

And yet, despite discovering the truth, he was too weak and blind to stop loving her. He was so young, so idealistic and romantic after years of light and innocence. He convinced himself she was a tragedy rather than a monster, a beautiful girl shattered into little pieces that he would put back together. But she wasn't a victim of her madness, as he had convinced himself. She was a monster – a beautiful one, but a monster in every sense of the word.

After so many years, he still remembered the first night she drank his blood. The heat of summer had just begun to fade into the chill of autumn, and the breeze that blew through his open window was cool and biting. Despite the chill, she arrived in his bedroom in a white sundress that his mother would have called "indecent". She liked the darkness, she always told him, so his lights were off, and his bedroom was illuminated with the dark blue light of nighttime.

For a while that night they had acted just as they usually did – kissing and whispering and dreaming together in the darkness. But then she whispered in his ear what she really wanted from him. She told him that she needed him, and it wouldn't hurt too badly, and he would like it, she promised.

He had been put off at first, and afraid, but then she gazed at him with mazarine eyes so wide and sad and lost. She told him how thirsty she was, how she was always thirsty. She told him how empty she felt, always hungry and lost. His heart ached for her so intensely that the piercing pain of her teeth slicing into his neck was sweet relief, because he knew he was helping her. He knew he made her happy and warm – she told him so.

On that night and the many that followed, whenever she drank his blood, he felt a strange sense of pride – honor, almost – that it would be _his _blood filling her yearning veins, that she would carry the essence of him, a piece of his soul, around with her everywhere she went. His blood would race through her veins, pooling into those secret parts of her he had never been able to see. It would fill her vacant heart and flow through the crevices of her enigmatic mind until eventually it mingled with her soul, where he imagined it would stay forever. It was damn poetic.

But one night, she didn't stop as soon as he felt lightheaded and weak. He knew that she was killing him, but he didn't struggle against her. A part of him had always known she would be the death of him. She was an otherworldly being, a deadly force of beauty and fantasy and darkness. He never stood a chance. And as she drained the blood from his veins, she completed her final conquest – his soul.

He awoke to a world of eternal darkness, alone and in pain, and empty. She wasn't there. He knew that she was gone forever. He knew it even before he found the letter she had left him, telling him the truth about her feelings for him and imploring him not to look for her.

The blood in her veins was stolen through carnage, the violence of her heart masterfully hidden. She tore out his heart with her cruel destruction of their love before she tore open his throat with her piercing bite. And still he loved her, helpless and sick, and for so long he felt that it was worth it, to never see the sun again, if it meant he could have her light instead. Even though she left him, a hurricane of fickle passion in her world of night, he dreamed of eternity with her.

He lived aimlessly for a very long time, a misfit among his own people. He watched from a distance as his family mourned his death, and then moved on, and then aged and died. And for a long time, he was angry. He wished, bitterly, that she had just left him in peace, in the blissful silence of death. He wished she hadn't made him return to the world after she had killed him. But that wouldn't have been enough for her, he knew. She didn't want to kill his body. She wanted to kill his soul. And she had.

Still, so many years later, he spent far too much time thinking about her. She would like that, he thought, as he sat under a dark bridge and stared into deep, black water. It would please her to know that she truly had stolen every part of him – his mind, his body, his soul – and that she possessed him still.

Light footsteps behind him interrupted his reverie. He stood and turned to find himself towering over a slender, pretty girl. For a moment he was startled, but then he recognized her.

Faintly, almost dazedly, he remembered what he had done to her, the night before. What an awful thing to do, he thought. But he had become such an awful monster, he reminded himself. He knew enough of hate to recognize the look in her eyes. And he knew enough of his heart to know that he didn't have the strength to fight her. She had a passion to her, a forceful intensity in her spirit that he could feel even without knowing her. He had never been that kind of person. The kind of person who felt every emotion and committed every action with a ruthless, relentless, passionate abandon. That kind of passion, that intensity of spirit, was born only from extreme suffering, he had learned.

She had hair the color of blood and eyes the color of a deep forest on a summer night. Her every motion was a dance and every swipe of her dagger through the silent night was a song. She tore out his heart before she tore open his throat. And Felix didn't know if the metaphorical or the physical had been more painful. But he did know, as stolen blood pooled across his cold skin, as his dead heart ached in his chest, that he would never see the sun again. He had lived so long in an endless darkness, a darkness that had descended on his mind and his soul in an inescapable embrace. Through cracked, blood-stained lips, he smiled at the stars above him – the only light he had known in so long, shining brilliantly against a sea of eternal darkness.

He saw his mother's face – dead so long, it must be decayed and crawling with maggots by now. He saw _her_ face, dead so long yet it must be beautiful still. He wondered if she ever thought about him, and then he laughed bitterly through the blood in his throat because he knew she didn't. He was one of countless faces, one of countless games that she had created to keep herself entertained in her dark eternity. There were countless other boys in the world just like him, who had loved her and lost her and been damned by her.

He saw crimson hair from the corner of his eye, and he knew that the girl was waiting for him to die. His senses were fading but he smelled her blood – an intoxicating mixture of light and darkness, the molten, golden warmth of the sun and the cool, blue tint of a dark heart. It was what had drawn him to her. It was probably what had given her the strength to kill him.

The blood was draining from his body for the second time, and this time there would be no second chance. He wouldn't awake from the darkness like he had before, born again from the essence of that which he had disappeared into. When he faded into the darkness, he wouldn't emerge reformed by it. There would be only blackness. Blackness and silence, for the rest of eternity.

* * *

_"I am a lover without a lover. I am lovely and lonely and I belong deeply to myself." – Warsan Shire_

Clary Morgenstern would never be in love.

She didn't live in a world where things like that happened. Where everyone was important, special, and destined to be the great love of someone's life, the counterpart to another's soul, the heart that made another's swell with light and love. She lived in a world where her people were brutally murdered every day. She lived in a world that demons tore their way into through the night sky, clawing apart the stars to reach the innocent life teeming below. She lived in a world where tragedies happened every day.

And there was nothing she could do. All she could do was… _feel _it. She didn't ignore her pain or the suffering that surrounded her, as many did. Instead she immersed herself in it, sinking deeper and deeper into the darkness with every beat of her black heart. And it was from the midst of that darkness that she lived her life. It was where she loved her brother. It was where she hated herself. It was where she breathed and spoke and fought her father's war.

And oh, how she _felt _her pain. It was ruthless and intense, so forceful and torrential that she often felt it was driving her insane. She compensated for it by feeling everything in such a manner – with reckless, consuming passion. It was exhausting and vengeful, born from a hatred for everything that had caused her darkness and a hatred for how meaningless everything was.

She had always been this way, always been the kind of person who felt everything with an unnecessary, almost ridiculous intensity. The kind of person who wanted to be consumed and torn apart by the things that fascinated her – suffering, darkness, danger. But it wasn't until now, in this city, that she had possessed the clarity of mind to actually understand and analyze this behavior. She didn't know why – maybe it was being away from her father, or her home, or just the unfamiliarity of being in a new place – but something about being in New York had forced her to begin the process of knowing herself, knowing what lay in her heart and soul.

And on that dark summer night, the only thing she could find in her heart was a bitter rage and an unrelenting thirst for revenge. She immersed herself in it as she did everything, letting it grip her heart in its claws and pool through her veins and flood her mind.

She followed Simon's directions and found _him_ sitting in the darkness under a bridge, gazing into the water. When he heard her approach and turned to her, he didn't look fearful or threatening. For a moment, she almost thought he looked sad, and a bit amazed – at what, she didn't know. She could tell that he knew why she was there, and so she didn't hesitate before she drew the faery dagger and leapt for him. She was surprised that he didn't fight back with much ardor, but the surprise couldn't pierce her rage at what he had done to her and so she didn't falter.

It wasn't long before he was lying on the concrete ground, the blood he had stolen from innocent hearts pooling across his pale skin. She didn't feel remorse, but she did feel a small pang of sadness. Just moments ago she had been pondering the tragedy of the world she lived in, the prevalence of death and destruction and suffering, and here she was – adding to the pain of the world as she took the life of another being. She wondered if anyone would miss him.

She was surprised by a bitter laugh that tore his throat, sending blood bubbling through his lips. She was surprised at the pain of it – the utter _humanity_ of it. It had been easy to convince herself that he was a monster. But he wasn't dying like one. That laugh would haunt her for a long time. In it was the very helpless, bitter sadness she felt in her own heart. The kind that birthed itself in your heart when you realized how little you meant, and how much pain existed in the world, and how much everything simply didn't matter.

She waited for him to die before she left, knowing better than to take her chances. He had already cheated death once, after all. He stared at the stars the entire time. Just before he died, she saw a silver tear slip from the corner of his eye and leave a glistening trail down his cheek. She stared, and in that single gleaming teardrop she saw eternity. In it was heartbreak and the sadness of a lifetime and countless dying stars. It shattered when it hit the ground below, and then it was gone forever.

* * *

_"You have to keep breaking your heart until it opens." — Rumi_

Jace Wayland wished he could fall in love.

Years ago, perhaps even months ago, he would have cringed at the idea of such a weak, self-centered desire. He had been raised better than that, better than to think the world could ever actually offer something as pure and beautiful as the fairytale notions of love that he read in books and heard in songs and saw in the eyes of people too foolish to know better. Real love wasn't like that, he knew. Real love wasn't real at all – just a combination of attraction and affection that weak-minded people blew out of proportion to fulfill their selfish need to avoid being alone.

Jace wasn't afraid of being alone. But if he was being honest with himself, he was starting to enjoy it less. He didn't _need _people. But as years went on and he escaped the darkness of his childhood more and more, he was beginning to _want _them. He had been alone for so long. His entire life, really. When he was a child, he had been taught that life was better that way, and as he had grown older he had maintained that same ideal. But now, rather than finding himself independent and unhurt, as his father had said he would be, he found himself merely exhausted.

When he had arrived in New York, he had been broken. And afraid, though he would never admit it. He would go to bed at night and lie awake in the dark for hours. Nighttime was hardest for him – at home, when his father would return to visit him after days of being away, it would always be in the middle of the night. In New York, lying alone in his plain bedroom in the Institute, his youthful imagination would create the sound of his doorknob turning, and he would imagine his father's broad shoulders filling the doorframe, his face obscured by shadows. Sometimes he liked to imagine that this was just like that – his father was just away for a while, but eventually he would come back. He would walk up to Jace's bedroom and enter without knocking, just like he used to, and just like before he would inquire as to what Jace had taught himself during their separation. And just like before, there would be no sentimentality or affection or emotion in their reunion, but Jace would feel his heart swell with joy and relief that his father had returned just like he said he would.

But that would never happen, he would force himself to think. He would never see his father again. He had watched him die. He had watched him get murdered and bleed out on the floor. But as much as he tried to convince himself of those facts, Jace could still _feel _his father, and while his mind knew that his father was gone forever, his heart refused to accept it. He couldn't help but think that, if his father were truly gone, he would feel it in his heart too. And he didn't. He still felt a shadowy presence, an inescapable weight that pressed down with each beat of his heart.

And when he was a child, those reminders of his father's still-present influence over him had been evident even to those around him. Sometimes, when he was training with Alec or Hodge or Robert, he would get unexplainable aches in his back – phantom injuries from whips or rods that had never quite healed, and the adults would get worried and go easier on him until eventually they didn't push him at all and he had to handle his training on his own. Sometimes he would watch Robert or Alec together and remember the way his father used to read to him, his deep voice narrating fantastic stories richly and soothingly, and it would make him gloomy and melancholy and overcome with grief until eventually the Lightwoods didn't include him very often at the fear of reminding him too much of the father had lost. Sometimes Robert would reach forward to muss his hair and Jace would flinch, seeing his father's black eyes ignite with anger and disappointment as his fist flew forward to deliver a punishment, and his nervousness made his new family so uncomfortable that eventually no one ever touched him.

And so he had lived his life alone, and suppressing every motion that stirred in his black heart out of habit. With age he had come to believe that maybe his father had been wrong, that maybe love wasn't completely pointless, but he had also come to believe that he would never find anyone who could love him, nor would he find anyone he could love. It made quite the hopeless proposition.

And he _had _been hopeless. Utterly, inescapably, pathetically hopeless. Until he had felt that unforgettable sensation in his heart – a jump, a shudder, and then a slow stirring – the night he had looked into that girl's eyes. It wasn't love at first sight – he wasn't an idiot. But it was a connection – a connection forged from darkness and suffering, but it was still more than he had ever shared with anyone else.

He hadn't gotten close enough to her to guess as to what that connection might mean – hell, he hadn't even spoken to her. It could be hatred. It could be lust. He didn't know enough of her, or relationships at all, to have a good idea. But he did know, whatever it might lead to, that they shared something – the same darkness, the same pain, _something. _And he would follow her – even get to know her, eventually – until he figured out what it was.

He watched the girl walk down empty streets alone, her pale skin splattered with scarlet blood. He hadn't found her in time to watch the act itself – she was quick and small, and he found he often lost her in crowds – but he had arrived in time to see a vampire bleeding out on the ground and the girl above him, his blood on her hands in more ways than one. A normal person would have cringed at the brutality of it, but Jace didn't. He saw in her a dark heart, just like his.

He wondered what the vampire had done to her. He wondered what the girl had felt when she killed him – relief, anger, satisfaction? He wondered when she had gone from being a girl to "the" girl. And he wondered why he was following her. He didn't know anything about her.

He couldn't believe he didn't even know her name. He couldn't believe it, because she felt so _real _to him. He felt like everyone he had ever met was separated from him by a wall of opaque glass that distorted voices and blurred faces, morphing everyone into a single, faceless crowd of people who spoke languages he didn't and laughed louder than he did and saw the world from a completely different perspective.

But this girl didn't feel that way to him. He saw her perfectly, clearly – the color of her hair seemed vivid and bright, her eyes more vivid still. Where the rest of the world was a grey blur to him, he saw her in sharp edges and vivid colors and precise movements; he saw everything about her with perfect clarity. He didn't understand her – not even in the slightest – but he _saw _her.

He saw a look in her eyes, a shadow, and an air to her movements that called to his soul in a deep, unquestionable beckon, the soft keening of a broken heart. He saw the two of them in their own world, separate, imprisoned in a dark world with sharp edges and painfully vivid truths. He saw them separated from the laughing, loving, blissfully ignorant world around them by a cellophane screen – everything distorted, faded, muffled; everything forever out of their reach. He had always known he lived in a world like that, always been plagued by the insistent feeling that he simply didn't _belong. _But he had never dreamed that he would find someone living there with him. He had never dreamed that there was a heart as dark as his, lurking in shadows of the same pain he had suffered alone for so long.

Whenever he tried to think about these feelings rationally, he couldn't. The girl didn't exist there, in the world of facts and knowledge and absolute truths. She existed in the secret shadows of his heart and soul. She existed in the world of dreams and fantasies and dark, deep, unfamiliar emotions, the world he had denied himself for so long. It was such a thrill to immerse himself in it once more, like he had when he was younger.

It was so romantic, so idealized and fanatic and naïve that he felt disgust and shame roiling in his stomach. But he couldn't ignore the emotions stirring in his chest or the thoughts spinning into themselves and onward in his mind, or the dream that unfolded itself behind his closed eyes when he fell asleep at night. He dreamed of a soul to bury himself in, a mind to explore, a heart to consume his. He dreamed of her.

* * *

**Can you believe I once planned on telling this story in just one POV? Just one point of view the whole, entire time. Crazy soup.**

**I know I changed Jace's opinions about love, but I had to because Clary is so different in this story. I could go into a detailed description of my motivations/intentions, but I won't subject you to that unless someone expresses interest in such an explanation.**

**If the sequence of events isn't clear, I apologize and I'****d be happy to clear it up for you.**

**Reviews make me so happy it's ridiculous. _Please. _If you can't think of anything to say, here's a prompt: Which character's portion of this chapter was your favorite? And why? I wonder if it's the same as mine, and I'm curious about what kind of things you guys like to read. See, it would help my writing _and _it would be interesting. **


	9. Chapter 9

**Happy Clockwork Princess release day! It was probably stupid to update today. No one's going to be on fanfiction. But I didn't want to make you wait any longer, so here I am. **

**As always, I apologize for the wait. I promise, though, that even when chapters are taking a really long time, I ****_am _****working on this story. Believe it or not, I spent a lot of time on it during the wait. It wasn't just this chapter that was giving me difficulty; I was trying to plan out the rest of the plot, and I re-read City of Bones to make sure I didn't make any glaring mistakes. Even so, this chapter on its own ****_was _****pretty hard. I don't even know why. And, as usual, my life is falling apart. Haha. Ha. *gross sobbing***

**I've gotten a lot of wonderfully kind feedback for this story, and I really appreciate it. I've also gotten some amazing reviews from guests, and since I can't reply to you privately I wanted you all to know that your reviews really meant a lot to me! Thank you very much.**

**And while I appreciate all of your kind words endlessly, I would also appreciate it if all the people who ****_don't _****like this story would take a minute to let me know why. Seriously, only about 2% of the people who view this story follow or review it. I didn'****t do the actual math, but that's not an exaggeration. There's no sarcasm or bitterness here, I really would like to know. Criticism is helpful too.**

**Last order of business: I'm about 98% sure that I'm going to change the title of this story. I wanted to warn you so that people who have this on story alert don't get the notification and not know what story it is. It will probably still be "City of [something]" and I'm not changing my penname, so hopefully it's not too confusing. **

**And without further ado,**

* * *

_"I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,in secret, between the shadow and the soul." – Pablo Neruda _

* * *

_The sun was in her eyes as she walked down the street, but a glance skyward showed that the moon was up, too. _

_She knew she was in New York, although the street she walked on was completely empty – far too empty for a street in such a large city. _

_She was completely alone. There was no noise, no motion, no life at all; only her, a lone figure on an empty street, and the wind – a high, eerie howling, echoing through the buildings in a manner that made it amplified and multi-toned. It was only the wind, she knew, but it sounded like the mournful howls of lost souls. She remembered that sound. She would never forget it. _

_Two wolves appeared from behind a building and she jumped, startled. As they approached her she saw their fur – one of them brown and the other grey and white – matted with blood. Gaping wounds in their chests exposed their insides, and she saw a golden thread connecting their un-beating hearts. They passed her, eyes tortured and pained, and she shivered as the howling of the wind grew louder._

_She continued on her journey, the sky darkening above her. A faerie sat in a tree, vines entwining her limbs and her torso. Its thorns pierced her blue skin, and blood ran across her in small streams. The faerie wailed, tortured, and the noise added to the noise of the wind. "Look," she whispered, and she held out a dark green flower that was wilting in time with the blackening of the sky above. "It's dying."_

_Seraphina skirted around the girl's outstretched hand and the wilting flower. The girl didn't pursue her, trapped in the tree by the vines that skewered her, but she let out a horrific shriek that sent blood dripping out of her mouth and slipping from her eyes like tears. "You should never have come to this place," the faerie whined mournfully. "Look at what you've done." _

_Seraphina scampered further away from the girl, trying to ignore her unnerving cries._

_Houses lay on either side of her, but she knew they were empty. She felt a presence pressing against her, dark and dreadful, and she was getting nearer to it with every step. The darkness grew and grew, swarming in her chest and invading her mind, until she reached its apex, its source, in a house at the end of the street. Against her will, she approached it, wanting desperately to run in the other direction. She ascended the stairs to the front door, and they seemed to lengthen as she climbed._

_Before the door opened, she felt a heart-wrenching, sickening sense of dread bloom in her chest like slime, pouring into her mouth and her eyes and her mind. The sky was completely black now, the sun gone and the moon fading fast, and all around her she heard the rustling of leaves as tall trees swayed in the wind, and behind her the faerie still wailed in despair and wolves howled with the wind._

_"Help me," Seraphina whispered, but there was no one to hear her, and her whisper disappeared into the wind. Her thoughts spun, faster and faster – she needed help, but no one was listening and her whisper had disappeared like it had never existed, and something awful was going to happen, and she couldn't breathe. _

_The door before her opened. And behind it was her mother. Ginger curls, light green eyes, scars and freckles and lean muscles. Her face was set in a smile, her eyes blank and flat. She was saying something, but her lips didn't move – her face remained frozen, the smile still in place. Her voice was so muffled and choked that Seraphina couldn't hear individual words. It took her a moment of listening, but eventually she realized her mother was only saying _one _word. _

_"Monster." The same word, over and over again, overlapping itself in layers that sounded like a discordant chant. Seraphina knew the word was directed at her. _

_Her mother's chanting rose in volume, and so did the faerie and the wolves and the wind, until the entire world was a cacophonous symphony of wailing and howling and agony. And Seraphina was at its center, tortured and alone, and the awful noises rose to such a volume that it was all she could do to hold herself together. Her heart splintered. And then it cracked. And she was on her knees, and she was shattering and burning and shaking and her very soul split apart – _

Clary jolted awake in a cold sweat, her limbs shaking and her head pounding. It was several moments before she could shake off the remnants of her dream, and even then she was uncomfortably confused for a long, silent moment in the darkness of her bedroom. It took her a while to remember everything – where she was, and why. And then she remembered how alone she was – for the first time in her life, she was completely alone. No Valentine, no Jonathan. No Jonathan.

She struggled past choking sadness and focused on a different emotion instead – exhaustion. She felt the same deep tiredness in her bones that she had when she had collapsed on her bed what felt like moments ago. But if she was still tired, what had woken her up? It wasn't her dream; she had slept through worse horrors countless times. There was an echo in her ears, a soft call. It was what had woken her, she knew. But what was it?

And then it came again. "_Clary!_" a voice called, muffled and faint, but she heard it. This time, the call was followed by a sharp rap against her window – probably a stone. Startled, she leaped out of her small bed and walked across her room to the window. The fire escape blocked her view of the street below. With a deep breath she opened the window, and a cool breeze wafted into her apartment. She climbed out onto the fire escape, heart racing, head still pounding, and then leaned over the railing to see who it was. And then she sighed.

"Clary!" Casper's face brightened considerably at the sight of her. She groaned in frustration. It had been a few days since she had killed Felix, and when she hadn't seen or heard from Casper she had assumed that the entire ordeal was behind her. Apparently, Casper had different plans.

"Go away," she called down to him, and then she leaned back from the railing to go back inside.

"Clary, no! Wait!" he shouted after her. "Please, come back!"

When she leaned back over the railing, exasperated, he smiled. "What do you want?" she snapped, but her harsh tone didn't seem to diminish his cheer.

"I… well, I," he sighed. "Could you come down here? I don't want to shout the whole time."

"I can hear you, trust me."

"Oh, right… Shadowhunter, yeah," his voice was lower this time. "But…" he sighed again, and now he was the one who was exasperated. "Could you please just come down anyway?"

Clary considered slamming her window shut and ignoring him until he went away, but she recognized the look of undying persistence in his eyes and knew that would take quite a while. She wanted so badly to crawl back into bed and fall asleep – she was deeply, achingly tired – but she had never been able to sleep in anything less than silence, and Casper's relentless yelling was far from it.

So she went back inside and slammed her window shut but, instead of ignoring him, changed into more appropriate clothes, grabbed her stele and the fairy dagger from under her pillow, and made her way downstairs. She took a different route in the hallway to find the back door; her apartment was in the rear of the building, so that must be where Casper was.

The night air was cool and refreshing as she stepped through the door and out into a dark alley, and Casper – his arm poised to throw another stone at her window – started in surprise at the sight of her. But then he smiled again – that wide, shining smile – and came forward eagerly to greet her.

"Clary," he breathed happily.

"Casper," she replied coolly. "How did you find me?"

With a sly grin, he presented her with a strand of crimson hair that he seemed to have procured out of thin air. "I found this on my jacket when I got home."

"And you figured it was an invitation?" she demanded scathingly.

His enthusiasm diminished slightly at her tone, but not as much as she had hoped. "I'm glad you're letting me talk to you," he began, a hint of nervousness creeping into his deep, slightly rough voice. She wondered if it always sounded that way or if all the shouting had worn out his vocal cords.

"Well," she said brusquely, not wanting him to get too comfortable "you're interrupting so you'd better hurry."

"Interrupting what?"

"Sleep."

Casper rolled his eyes. "Sleep is so _boring_."

Clary rolled her eyes too. "Your time is running out, Casper."

"Right, right, okay," Casper made a genuine effort to look serious, but it didn't suit him. "Well, I came here to apologize… for, uh. Well, you know."

Clary quirked an eyebrow and waited in silence, refusing to help him through the awkwardness of his apology.

"Alright, alright," he sighed. "I'm sorry," he said earnestly, but she caught the glint in his eye and her heart hardened. "Clary, please. You have to believe me – I had no idea what he was doing. And I was so angry when I found out, and I felt so guilty that you were hurt, and I swear, I – "

"I believe you," she interrupted, and he looked relieved but surprised. She was lying, of course. Having grown up in an environment as hostile as the Morgenstern household, she had grown up with an inclination towards manipulation and resourcefulness. Valentine had once called it a "natural gift," but Clary had a feeling it had more to do with necessity. Whatever the cause, she was a master at getting what she wanted from people. And it was this tendency that allowed her to recognize the glint in Casper's eye – he wasn't sorry, and he didn't feel guilty. But he wanted her to think he was.

She was clever enough to know he was trying to manipulate her. But she could also tell it was harmless – he was only playing a game, like she so often did. It was disconcerting and exciting all at once, the discomfort of knowing he was trying to use her and trick her coupled with an enticing opportunity for a challenge of wits with someone who wasn't Jonathan, someone new and unfamiliar and dangerous.

But she really was tired, and anxiety and worry from the pressure of her mission for Valentine were pressing down on her mind like a heavy cloud. She didn't have time for Casper's games. She wasn't there for games. She was on an assignment, an important one, and she still hadn't done much.

"Really?" Casper was asking her, wary but hopeful. She noticed a flash in his eyes once more – satisfaction this time, arrogance. Her sense of responsibility – the instinct that had pressed her to end the conversation as soon as possible – was overwhelmed by her competitive flair, bursting through her blood like a flash of light and energy and sound.

"Yes, really," she assured him, instilling as much sincerity into her voice as possible. She could play, too. "What happened with Felix was my fault. I never blamed you for it." At least that part was true. What happened _was _her fault. She should have been more careful, more aware, and then nothing would have happened. _She _had been the one on _their _territory; she had voluntarily entered their group and their world and she hadn't kept all of the consequences in mind. And she had paid for it, and she would have paid for it much more dearly had it not been for Simon.

"Well…" Casper ventured, "I guess I don't have to finish my apology then. But you're missing out, because it was fantastic."

"Oh, really?" she smirked.

"Yes," he continued, characteristic grin returning. "I had it all planned out. There were tears, begging. Some poetry. Passionate kissing."

"How quaint."

"Yeah, you really should have let me finish. Your loss, Shadowhunter."

She didn't answer him, but she couldn't help but smile. Even in this slightly twisted game he had started, Casper had an easy air about him, careless and cool, that she wasn't used to. But she found it put her at ease somewhat, and she had a sense that it was a personality much more compatible to hers than the tense, stern Nephilim she had grown up around. She and Jonathan had always been different in that way – one of _many _ways in which they were strange – unusual for their recalcitrance and their recklessness. And _her _rebellion and unruliness was extreme enough to put even Jonathan's to shame.

Upon noticing that she was warming up to Casper when she had, just moments ago, resolved to get rid of him and get back to work on her assignment, Clary felt a rash of frustration at herself and let the smile fall from her lips. Casper noticed, and his smile vanished too. He came closer to her, his handsome, fine-featured face looking less youthful in its solemnness than it had before. She almost shivered, remembering what she had earlier found so easy to forget, when he was all rakish charm and vibrant abandon: that he was older than her by at least a decade, that he was more powerful than he let on, that he was a Downworlder and she shouldn't be talking to him this way.

"I do have some good news, darling" Casper murmured, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek and then stepping closer to her, so that she had to look up to see him, and she could smell him – smoke and leather and magic, just like she remembered from the night they had met. She was uncomfortable with him so close, and she thought about stepping away, but something made her stay.

"He's dead. His coven found him by the river, with his throat cut open and his heart torn out," Casper told her, his voice too soft and gentle for his words.

She didn't say anything. She knew her face wouldn't betray her, but that didn't mean he didn't already have some suspicion. After all, it would be more likely that he had come there to avenge his friend than to apologize to her, a girl he had only met once. Maybe the apology had been a façade, the beginning of a game even more complicated and cruel than she had realized. It would explain why he had come in the middle of the night, and refused to leave her alone. It would explain the way his emotions shifted moment to moment like the swing of a pendulum. It would explain why the word "darling," so affectionate and tender, had instead escaped his lips as a sinister and dark caress.

But as he continued looking at her, excitement and slyness lit up the depths of his deep purple eyes and bloomed like a flower, and it sounded as though he really had meant for the news to cheer her up. He didn't look angry, or even sad. Just devious and devilish, his hand still resting on her neck and his fingertips brushing her face.

"Sent quite the ripple through our little world," Casper continued, but, once again, his cunning smirk didn't give the impression that he was mourning for his friend.

Clary told him as much. "You don't look particularly grief-ridden." She was still wary, but her suspicion of his intentions was fading fast.

"I'm not," he declared definitively. "I love living here. I love this place."

"Because your friends are brutally murdered on a semi-regular basis?"

"Yes," he whispered. "Isn't it so very exciting, Clary?"

Casper's enthusiasm was infectious, his behavior similar to the dark excitement Jonathan would always alight with when they got into trouble together, and she let out a soft, high giggle. He laughed with her and wrapped his arms around her waist. "Can I show you?"

"Show me what?" They were still whispering.

"_Excitement_." He lifted her into his arms and twirled with her, and it was so cliché and silly that she laughed again.

When she stopped laughing and he stopped spinning, they were caught up in a moment of intense silence. He looked into her eyes with a probing forcefulness that made her uncomfortable. "Come with me," he murmured. "Spend one more night with me."

She wanted to say no. She became aware of her worry again, dark and anxious – she had avoided the idea of Jocelyn for days, and so she still hadn't gone to see her. She hadn't even walked past the woman's flat. In her mind's eye she saw the scrap of Valentine's thick, expensive paper inscribed with the address she had memorized before she even left home. It was sitting on her desk where it had been for days, avoided and untouched by Clary, who with each passing moment felt her heart swell with anxious unease as she pondered which was worse – the thought of meeting Jocelyn, or the thought of Valentine finding out that she still hadn't performed the most important part of her assignment.

But this was part of her assignment too, she told herself. Valentine wanted information on Downworlders too. And Clary had a feeling she would have a hard time finding Downworlders more "Downworld" than Casper and his friends. She also had a feeling that whatever Casper wanted her to do with him wasn't what Valentine had in mind, but it wasn't _her _fault Valentine hadn't been specific, was it?

And in a large way, Clary _didn't _want to say no to Casper. Because, though it seemed trivial, he was interesting. He interested her. And that wasn't an easy effect to have on her, always so illusive and aloof. Usually, she was too absorbed in her own head to be interested in much of anything outside of her invisible world, and when something _was _interesting enough to pull her out, it was fleeting – a surprise encounter with a demon, a devious activity suggested by her brother, an interesting conversation to eavesdrop on.

But here, in New York, demons never took her by surprise, Jonathan was very far away (an ache pulsed in her chest), and her secret assignment for Valentine was far more interesting than anything anyone else was doing. And that had resulted in one, dreaded, tragic fact – she was _bored_. If there was one torture she had never been able to endure, it was boredom.

So, "Okay," she finally murmured, soft and passive. He would like that, she knew. Soft, feminine, passive. Men like him always liked that.

He was still holding her in his arms, and now he leaned in and kissed her. She let him, but she wasn't sure how she felt. It was different, now, away from the confusion and intoxication of the Pandemonium where they had met. On that night, she had known – or thought she did – that it was only one night with him, and then she would move on. But this felt more concrete, more like she was entering into something that would last. Casper certainly wasn't the monogamous type – she wasn't stupid. But still, the thought of accepting affection from and spending time with someone other than Jonathan was uncomfortable and unnatural.

A flash of something in her peripheral vision – something bright and moving – gave her an excuse to pull away from Casper. He set her back on her feet, slightly surprised and maybe a bit irritated with her, she thought. She turned to where the flash had come from – the mouth of the alley, where it met a busy street – and he followed her gaze, but nothing was there.

"I think I saw that too," Casper told her, grudgingly, as though he blamed her for it.

"What do you think it was?"

"No idea…" he murmured, both of them still staring. After a pause, he diverted her attention, "Don't worry about it. Probably an alley cat. Let's go." He held out a pale, long hand and she took it, following him as he led her away from the brightness and noise of the street behind them and further into the dark silence of the alley.

* * *

Jace swore under his breath as he dove around the corner of the brick building next to the alley. He had come to the girl's apartment – finding it had taken quite a few hours of following her, but to his satisfaction he had finally succeeded – and, given the hour, he had expected her to be _inside _it. But when he rounded the corner, he saw her with a tall, dark figure – a man – and she was in his arms, and they were kissing, and Jace had time to feel an irrational spark of jealousy before he saw her turn her head in his direction and he had to throw himself back the way he came to avoid being caught.

He waited a few seconds and peeked back around the corner, and to his relief neither of them was walking in his direction to investigate. Crisis averted, he allowed his tense muscles to relax. Here he had thought he was being clever by going to the back alley instead of the front door, and he had almost ruined everything

_Everything, _he thought mockingly. What was there to ruin? What was he even _doing_?

He was following her. Even Jace, who was not particularly well-known for undying morality, thought it was a bit weird. Creepy. Maybe even immoral, but he wasn't a good judge of that. At first, in the days following the near-disaster at the Pandemonium, it had been strategic and logical. Among the residents of the Institute, there had been a large sense of mystery and nervousness about her, whoever she was. But, following her, it hadn't taken long to see the runes that twined across her pale skin, identifying her as one of them. And if her runes hadn't fully convinced them, her impressive kill of a group of Jinn in an alleyway, one of many displays of showmanship they had witnessed, confirmed that she was, undoubtedly, a Shadowhunter. A damn good one, too.

They had concluded as a group that it must have been some spell or potion that had caused her strange behavior. It happened quite often, actually, and the Pandemonium had been wilder than usual as of late. _Everything_ had been wilder, really – Downworlders more raucous and unruly, demons more audacious and careless, Shadowhunters showing up dead more often. A strange encounter with one of their own was hardly something to lose sleep over – even Jace, cautious and deadly as he was, had fallen prey to the occasional faery potion with unpredicted side effects.

And with the revelation that the girl wasn't a danger, or even all that strange after all, Isabelle had lost interest in the girl because it wasn't exciting anymore, and Alec had lost interest because it wasn't a danger to his family anymore. But Jace hadn't lost interest. He didn't understand why, but the thought of her still kept him up at night, and she continued to occupy a very secret, private place in him – the moments between seconds, the whirling thoughts before sleep, the space between his heartbeats.

He had made himself look like a fool to Alec and Isabelle when he insisted that they continue to follow her. Alec had demanded a logical explanation, which Jace was unable to provide, and Isabelle had made a crude comment along the lines of "I'm not doing all that work just because you want to have sex with some girl from a club." Jace had resented that, because it wasn't true. It wasn't _un_true either, but he kept that to himself.

Awakened to his foolishness with the help of his siblings – he had to admit, the entire situation was completely ridiculous – he had tried to make himself give up on the idea of her. Or started to, anyway. But his efforts to purge her from his mind had been interrupted by Hodge, who one night called him to the study for "a moment alone," to talk about the girl from Pandemonium. The "moment" turned out to be a very long – and very strange – conversation. Hodge asked so many varied, odd questions that by the end of their discussion Jace hadn't even the slightest idea of what Hodge was trying to discover. He asked things like where she was staying, if Jace had seen her with any other Shadowhunters they knew, how good she was at fighting (the answer was _extremely good_, from what Jace had seen of her various kills since she had arrived). He wanted a detailed description of the girl's appearance, a near-neurotic account of the girl's behavior and activities and personality.

And by the time Jace had answered all of Hodge's questions – the ones he _could _answer, at least, which wasn't many – he had seen worry bloom in his tutor's gray eyes, dark and foreboding and fearful. But then Hodge had turned away to gaze out of the library window for a long few moments, and when he turned back Jace thought he must have imagined it, because Hodge appeared as composed and stern as always. Even when he suggested – in that way of his that made it clear it wasn't _really_ just a suggestion – that Jace continue to follow the girl, his eyes remained cool and passive.

Jace felt the race of excitement in his blood – he loved hunting, he loved a challenge, and he was very intrigued by the girl with red hair, who for days had danced away from his gaze and through his mind without even trying, an enigma in a pretty shell. It wasn't until Hodge "suggested" that Jace don't tell anyone it was Hodge's idea to follow her that Jace felt his excitement dampened and curdled with worry. Jace knew why _he _was interested in the girl – it had almost become a game – but Hodge seemed almost as interested as he was. And Hodge wasn't the type to play games. So what was it, then, that had urged Hodge to ask for so much information about her, and ask Jace to follow her, and, the strangest part of it all, to keep it a secret from everyone else?

Jace didn't know. Sometimes he felt a prick of worry at Hodge's odd reaction to news of the girl, but he didn't feel his family was in danger – she was only one girl, and one of them, the Nephilim, at that. And he wasn't about to pass up an excuse to know more about her. And with Hodge's strange behavior, yet another essence was added to the mystery that already surrounded her like smoke. This game was only getting more and more interesting to play, and Jace had come alive with the excitement and anticipation of it all.

In recent nights, however, he was a bit disappointed that there seemed to be far too much "anticipation" and not enough "excitement." She was interesting, sure, but, as any serial killer could tell you, there came a point when stalking just wasn't enough anymore. Jace found himself wanting _more_. What, exactly, he had no idea. But _something. _

Now, instead of watching her hunt and move and live within her own secret, silent world, an experience that had been mesmerizing and enthralling, he had to watch her touch someone who wasn't him and laugh with someone who wasn't him and talk to someone who wasn't him. He wasn't jealous, he told himself. How could he be? He didn't know her. She could be unbearable for all he knew. But he hadn't even heard her voice yet. He didn't know her name.

And _Casper _did.

Casper _fucking _Shade was friends with this girl, and Jace had to watch from a distance? It was absurd. Out of all the lowlife, Downworlder scum infesting this city, she chose _him_?

Jace hadn't recognized Casper that night at the Pandemonium, having only met him once or twice, but after endless agonizing over the details of his first encounter with the girl, his jogged memory allowed him to match the face with the name he had heard so often. Casper Shade. Jace was surprised he hadn't placed him sooner – Casper was quite popular in Downworld, and quite infamous besides. It was well known that he was of the less-savory variety of Downworlder, the kind that had no respect for the Accords or the Nephilim, that ran drug rings and partook in back-alley dealings with demons.

The Clave had been trying to catch Casper in the act for years, from what Jace had heard from Maryse and Robert. Unfortunately for them, he was clever. He had managed to build his reputation in the Shadow World swiftly and stealthily, and by the time the Clave caught on he was already at the point where he could run almost any illegal operation he wanted without getting his hands dirty.

So what in the _hell _was the girl doing with him? It wasn't unheard of for Shadowhunters to associate with Downworlders they weren't supposed to – Isabelle did it all the time. And there wasn't actually _proof _that Casper was doing anything wrong. But still, it seemed _wrong _to Jace. Maybe it was the age difference, he wondered idly.

Significant age differences were common when entire segments of the population were immortal. But, young for a warlock, Casper was only about a decade older than the girl. Somehow, it was creepier than if he were a few centuries older. Jace didn't know why; it just _felt _weird. An age difference of a few hundred years could be attributed to the magic of their world, the mystery of eternal beings. But there was nothing particularly magical about an age difference of ten years – any pedo off the street could manage that.

Jace told himself that was why he shuddered when Casper linked his fingers with the girl's, brushed her hair away from her pretty face, pulled her into dark alleys and doorways and kissed her.

But if seeing them together bothered him so much, why was he still following them?

Hodge _had _asked him to, Jace reminded himself. But the longer he followed her, the less it seemed like anything useful could come of it. It was interesting that she chose to spend so much time with Downworlders – especially Casper's type – but it wasn't unheard of. And Jace was starting to resent the girl. She had been interesting at first, but following her had created strange effects in Jace, who was normally so disinterested and aloof when it came to others.

He didn't like thinking about her anymore. He wanted her – well, the _idea_ of her – to leave him alone. He wanted to return to the way he was before, when no one could pique his interest even if they tried and no one had any potential of meaning anything to him. He wanted nothing more than to let her vanish into the darkness ahead of him and go back home, to the Institute, and forget about her. But he couldn't.

But only because Hodge was nervous about her, he told himself. This was for Hodge.

Ahead of him, Casper said something that made the girl laugh. The sound startled Jace, who realized he had never heard her laugh before. He felt the brief warmth of satisfaction before he was overcome with resentment again – because he didn't want to care if she was laughing or not, or who had made her laugh in the first place.

He reveled in his bitterness, letting it spread in his heart like black sludge, letting it flood and consume his thoughts of her. He resented her because she had put his family in danger. He resented her because there were better things he could be doing than following her and her Downworld _friends _around on their illegal escapades. He resented her because he wasn't used to wanting a girl and not being certain he could have her.

He resented her because he imagined _his _hand in hers instead of Casper's, his arm wrapping around her delicate shoulders, his lips meeting hers in the dark hiding places between street lights.

God, he really hated her.

Though he had managed to make them more negative, thoughts of her plagued him as he followed her into the darkness, into the areas of town that were ruled by Downworlders and typically avoided by his own kind. He wondered if he could get away with not following her but telling Hodge he had; he knew enough about the local Downworlders to fudge the details. There would be alcohol, music, mindless vandalism, some minor infractions of the Accords. Nothing special. And he almost did it – he almost took the stairs down to the subway when he passed them, went to find some trouble for himself instead of watching the girl have her fun.

But, with an exasperated sigh, he continued following them. Maybe it was important, he told himself. But he couldn't imagine why.

Maybe she was some sort of criminal. Or maybe Hodge was actually looking for information on Casper, and was wondering why he was spending so much time with a Shadowhunter. Jace had to admit that he had been wondering the same: why was Casper interested in her?

Jace knew the answer to that as soon as he asked himself – she was attractive. The long, graceful arch of her neck under the delicate sharpness of her jaw. The fullness of her lips, pale and pink. Her high cheekbones and her wide, deep green eyes. She had elfin features, and the waves of her long hair, an unnatural shade of crimson and brushing her bony elbows, only added to the effect.

But New York was full of pretty girls. Jace wondered if Casper had noticed the same things he had. The bitterness of her smile, the splatters of scarlet blood that always seemed to mar her smooth, pale complexion by early morning. Jace had noticed these things. He saw in them a kindred soul. The way her eyes lit up in battle, the way she watched the world around her with bitter, detached amusement – she was very much like him. No one had ever been like him before.

He reminded himself that he didn't _actually _know her – a reminder that had been needed more and more frequently lately – as he followed the couple further into the more dangerous areas of the city. He hoped viciously that a demon, or maybe a Downworlder, would confront him and give him an excuse for a fight. But he was the only shadow lurking in the darkness. He was the only hunter stalking its prey.

No demons emerged from the darkness around him. No Downworlders tried to surprise him from alleyways. He was alone. Alone except for the girl, who walked ahead of him – a nameless, voiceless figure; living and breathing and speaking out of his reach; with someone who wasn't him.

God, he hated her.

* * *

After a long walk down many dark streets, Casper and Clary finally arrived at their destination – a desolate spans of concrete under the bridge that stretched across the river. A blue fire was raging large and bright near the water, and around it a large group of Downworlders laughed and shouted and danced in a cacophony of noise and motion and color.

Casper led her by the hand to a smaller, quieter group lounging on the outskirts of the gathering. They greeted him, but they ignored Clary until Casper pushed her forward with a small nudge and introduced her. "This is Clary," he announced, and Clary saw two girls to her left look at each other and roll their eyes while a few others eyed her Marks with dubious stares. "She's cool," Casper clarified, and for whatever reason this seemed to dispel his companions' hostility. Clary recognized Isaac and Declan, who acknowledged her with small nods. Isaac even smiled.

"Too bad Felix isn't here," Declan drawled mockingly, "I think he liked you even more than Casper does." Clary bristled at his words but forced herself to smile as the group broke into laughter. She noticed the undertone of derision in the noise and reminded herself to keep her guard up. Declan's comment hadn't been particularly funny, but his companions seemed more than happy to have a reason to laugh at her. And also, it seemed, more than willing to laugh about the fact that their friend was dead.

"Not possible," Casper proclaimed, giving her neck a soft kiss as he wrapped an arm around her waist. The girls - vampires – rolled their eyes again.

Realizing Casper was the only way she would gain acceptance with this group, she accepted his affection with a small smile and let him lead her to an empty space in the group's circle. She listened to him talk to his friends, joining in often enough not to seem antisocial but not enough to seem overbearing. She held his hand and laughed at his jokes and kissed him. She accepted the drinks he offered her – luckily it was only mundane alcohol.

While the gathering as a whole was fairly raucous and unruly, Casper's group seemed more laidback and composed. Not _better _in terms of morality or behavior, but less ostentatious. They were smarter than the rest, Clary could tell. They had more organization, more purpose. This group of Downworlders would be helpful, she knew, for the information she needed for Valentine. And so she resolved to keep Casper happy for as long as she could.

And so when she spotted the glittering sparks of a warlock's magic followed by loud laughter and a few girlish screams, and saw Casper gazing longingly in that direction, she told him, "Go see what they're doing."

"Really?" Casper questioned, his grip tightening on her waist where they sat next to each other with his friends.

"Yeah," she insisted. She knew Casper would stay with her if she asked, not out of care but because of the game he was playing. She was a conquest to him, a challenge. A prize that he would do anything to win. He wanted to leave her side, she could tell. But he wouldn't if he thought it would ruin his chances with her.

Clary wanted to make him as happy as she could, if only to prolong the time they spent together so that she would have more to tell Valentine. And she knew that she would seem far less fun to him if he started to feel like he was babysitting her. Casper was looking in the direction of the laughter and screams and then back at her, still uncertain.

She kissed him, which seemed to make him feel better, and then pulled away, standing to stretch her sore muscles after sitting for so long on the concrete. He followed suit, rising to stand behind her.

"If you're sure you'll be alright for a few minutes…" he trailed off uncertainly.

"Of course," she assured him. He looked at her for a moment, his gaze dark and curious. Had he realized that she was playing him too?

But then he leaned in, kissed her, whispered, "Don't go far," and then he was gone.

For a second, she missed him. She suddenly realized that she was alone with all of _his _friends, who certainly weren't very keen on Shadowhunters. Maybe sending him away hadn't been the best idea. She pondered talking to Isaac – he was certainly the nicest, and he didn't seem to mind her.

But then she spotted something – someone – a boy in the distance, tall, with brown hair and skinny shoulders. She felt relief warm her chest as she walked briskly to where he was standing. He was alone too, she noticed. She tapped on his shoulder to get his attention.

Simon turned and looked surprised to see her, and a bit disappointed. "Clary?" he said incredulously. She felt a surprising twinge of shame when she realized it was _her _he was disappointed in – and no wonder, for the behavior she was partaking in – but she trampled it down with firm resolve. She didn't care what he thought. He was a vampire, and not a particularly strong one, and he didn't know her.

"Hi, Simon," she muttered back, a bit disgruntled.

"What are you…" he coughed before beginning again, "What are you doing here?" The cough must have been a nervous reflex from when he was human . Clary's predatory instinct sparked at the knowledge that he was anxious, but she tried her best to stifle it. She didn't want to scare him more than she – apparently – already did; she might need him.

"I'm with Casper," she told him, with a vague gesture in the direction she thought Casper had gone.

When he didn't answer her, she prompted, "What about you?"

"What?"

"What are _you _doing here?"

"Oh, right. I, uh," he looked over his shoulder before he answered her. "I was supposed to meet my coven leader for a… _meeting, _I guess you could call it. But he never showed up, and I heard his lieutenant was here. I thought maybe something had happened. Something bad, you know. But," with a gesture that encompassed the revelry around them, he proclaimed, "I guess not."

"What would have happened?" she asked, suddenly curious. "To your coven leader, I mean." Maybe Simon was interesting after all.

"Oh, I don't know," Simon was looking at his feet. "There's just been some… strangeness, lately. In the city. I guess I can't explain it, but… something just doesn't feel right."

Clary had a strong suspicion that the strangeness Simon felt was because of Valentine's plans. As far as she knew, she was the only one of Valentine's forces in the city, but she wouldn't put it past Valentine to carry out other plans behind her back, without telling her. He had done it before.

"Has anything actually… _happened _yet?" she questioned, careful to sound only casually curious.

"Not that I know of. A few people missing, a few bodies found. But that's pretty normal around here. At least, that's what I've been told."

"Oh," Clary said, surprised, "Are you new to the city?"

"No, no," Simon said with a smile, and it was an easy smile – warm and open. Not a smile she would have expected to see on a vampire. "No, I grew up in Brooklyn. I'm just new to all the… Downworld parts of it."

"Wait," Clary began, and scolded herself for being so slow. She wasn't normally, she knew, but her less-than savory behavior that night had slowed her reaction time somewhat. "How long have you been a vampire?"

"About three months," Simon told her with a nervous smile.

"So… How old are you?"

"Sixteen."

"Oh," she said with a smile. "Only a year older than me." She hoped she sounded friendly.

"Cool." Simon was still smiling, and it made her smile come a little easier.

They sounded silly, Clary knew. Like young children meeting for the first time. It was even more ridiculous when one considered the context of their small-talk – behind them and their shy smiles, vampires and warlocks and faeries yelled and laughed and danced around an enormous blue fire made of a demon's magic. Normally, small talk grated on Clary's nerves; it was so tedious and boring. But Simon was obviously clinging to his humanity with a death-grip, and small talk was about as human as she could make the conversation. If she was going to get information from him, he had to be comfortable. So small talk it was. And so when she heard Casper call her name, beckoning, she ignored him.

Simon had heard him too, and when she didn't leave him he raised an eyebrow. It meant something, she knew, that Casper had laid a silent claim over her and she was ignoring him for a Downworlder of a different caste. Clary felt that both she and Simon were aware of the world they were in now – a game of possession and intrigue, where everyone belonged to someone and everyone wanted to control someone else. She was a Shadowhunter and he was a vampire, and they were both all alone in the dark underworld of a large city. Simon was newborn fledgling in a coven of killers, and Clary was the only Shadowhunter in a clan of depraved, wild Downworlders.

The only difference between their loneliness, as Clary saw it, was that Simon didn't belong there. He was too gentle, too soft, and he was noticeably out of place among his violent, wicked companions.

But Clary belonged there. She felt it in her blood as it coursed through her veins, alighting with the excitement and the darkness of the new world she had discovered. It was a foreign world, she knew, and she was carefully, precisely aware of her ignorance of its nuances and workings – especially after her disastrous experience her first night in the city. But she was learning fast, with the fluidity of being that came naturally to her. She had no fixed personality, no moral compass pointing due north. She had always been that way. And it was this that allowed her to immerse herself in anything, allow herself to be absorbed and transformed by the people and the places she surrounded herself with. She was nothing in particular, and as a result could become anything at all.

Her conversation with Simon continued, but now she paid far less attention to it. It's not like it took much effort to talk about hobbies and the weather. Her mind was spinning away again, as it often did, into itself over and over. She found herself analyzing Simon where he stood before her, searching for a meaning to his being beneath his words. She could sense Simon's gentleness, see it in the deep brown of his eyes and the shyness of his smile. A part of her admired it, for she had never encountered such pureness in a single creature. But a larger part of her had already extended its claws and bared its teeth, bristling and cruel, prepared to tear him apart for his weakness. It was instinctual, predatory, a killer's cunning born from years of suffering. She was a predator catching the scent of blood in the air, a monster sensing fear in a victim's soul.

Suddenly, she didn't feel comfortable and assured around Simon anymore. Where before he had made her aware of her power and cunning, he now made her aware of her bitter, reprehensible cruelty. Next to the warmth and innocence of his soul, she felt the twisted, mutilated corpse of her own.

To ease the discomfort and shame this created, she reminded herself that Simon didn't _have_ a soul. He was a vampire. She repeated it to herself in her mind, focusing on the tracery of blue veins supernaturally apparent under his eerily pale skin, imagining his canines elongating into vicious fangs tearing into a pale throat. After several failed attempts, she found it was easier to create the words in Valentine's voice.

Yes, that was easier. She could almost hear his whisper on the night air, reassuring – that, though her soul may be blackened and mangled, at least she still had one. But she felt a flicker of doubt, deep in her heart. Simon didn't _seem _like a soulless monster. He seemed like everything she would imagine a mundane boy to be. But he _couldn't _have a soul. That's what she had been taught – not just been taught, but _believed _– her entire life. He had died. He was still dead. How else could you live after death but without a soul?

"I have to go," Simon was saying, and the words jarred Clary out of her reflection.

"Oh," she said softly, not sure if she was disappointed or relieved that Simon was leaving.

"Yeah… Well, goodbye, Clary," he said, as uncomfortable as ever, before turning his back on her and walking away.

She was still looking after him, wondering why she made him so nervous, when he suddenly stopped and doubled back, walking back in her direction with a sense of purpose she hadn't seen in him since they'd met. "I think we should see each other again sometime," he said, his voice soft but firm.

"Do you?" Clary asked with a smirk, knowing she was being unkind but not wanting to have to think about the questions of morality Simon seemed to raise with his very presence. She knew that _she _had asked _him_ if they could see each other – just a few days ago, in fact, the night she had killed Felix – but she had since changed her mind, and thus hadn't followed up on her invitation. She didn't want to see him anymore, not after what she had experienced in their conversation that night – the uncomfortable self-awareness, the sudden blatancy of her cruelty and her guile.

"Yeah, I do," Simon said, and she was surprised that his assuredness hadn't wavered. She wondered just where his sudden courage had come from. "I don't think you belong here, with these…" he made a vague gesture at the revels behind her, and his mouth twisted into a grimace.

"_I _think I do," she informed him.

"Yeah," Simon sighed, weary, "I know you do. But I want a chance to prove you wrong."

Clary's rejection was already on the tip of her tongue, but a sudden realization made her hold it back – delayed, thanks once again to substance abuse. She reminded herself to never drink again. Thinking back on their earlier conversation, she realized Simon _did _have the potential to serve a purpose. The way he had spoken about the changes in the city, said that he could _feel _that something was wrong – Valentine was being careful, Clary knew. She didn't know exactly what he was doing while she was in the city, but she knew he was preparing something that he wasn't telling her about. And she knew he would make the preparations as subtle as he could.

It would have taken a lot of intuitiveness and insight to pick up on changes as obscure as the ones Valentine was initiating through quiet maneuverings all the way from Idris. Intuitiveness that Casper and his friends didn't have. Through them, Clary had access to the deepest trenches of Downworld and all its dark glamour. But Simon offered a different channel – the Downworlders who were more mature, more involved in the human world, and therefore more aware. Valentine hadn't given her direct orders, but she knew that it was as important a demographic to monitor as the misfits she had been spending time with. She could make sure Valentine wasn't drawing too much suspicion, and warn him if he became too conspicuous. Maybe, by learning more about the things Simon was noticing, she could even figure out what Valentine was planning without her.

She flitted through these details quickly, almost frantically, but she had still kept Simon waiting for a few moments, and his conviction was faltering. So she smiled at him, charming, to reassure him. And she told him she'd like to see him again, and they made plans for the next day.

Simon left just in time to avoid Casper, whose lean form she glimpsed striding towards her with purpose and irascibility. He was irritated with her. His irritation, however, wasn't in his voice when he greeted her. "I've been looking everywhere for you, Pixie." He slung an arm around her shoulder, pinning her against him as he steered her away. She let him – even though she _could_ have lain him flat – knowing that she needed to return to her resolution to make him happy.

She soon found that the prospect wasn't _completely _un-enjoyable. She really did like Casper, with his dark humor and effortless charm. And she didn't mind the physical affection. Though at first it had been strange, coming from someone who wasn't Jonathan, she grew to see that it was also nice. It didn't make her heart race or her skin tingle, but it didn't hurt either. Jonathan hurt her all the time.

And his friends weren't as bad as she had expected either. As the night went on and everyone got more drunk and less mean, they seemed to warm up to her a bit. Even the vampire girls – Jade and Eva – pulled Clary aside for a few minutes for "girl talk," as they called it, and though they gave Clary's malice a run for its money, they weren't as awful as she would have expected. Like her, their wickedness was more of a general thing than something directed at any particular person.

Clary was enjoying herself, Casper had forgiven her for her prior disobedience, and the smaller cliques of Downworlders had focused into one large group when a loud, male voice, ringing with authority, boomed behind them, "What the hell is going on here?"

The man went ignored by almost everyone – Clary jumped a bit but didn't turn to look at him, whoever he was; Casper continued nuzzling her neck without the slightest pause or falter; no one turned down the music or hushed their voices. But soon Clary realized that some of their group _had _reacted; the werewolves had frozen, abandoning their conversations and shifting nervously away from the worst areas of the gathering – a lanky boy with blonde hair nearly tripped over Casper and Clary's entwined forms as he tried to distance himself from a group of druggies that had been dispersing a white powder amongst themselves. Casper hissed and shoved him, sending him sprawling to the concrete.

"I want every member of my pack out of here and back to base. _Now._" the same voice demanded.

Going from stunned to sheepish, the werewolves of their group turned to the man who had spoken – a tall, lean man with brown hair, middle-aged. "Luke?" a brunette werewolf girl questioned, equal parts fearful and incredulous. "How did you – I mean – "

Isaac shushed her harshly, and the wolves scrambled to collect their things and mutter swift, embarrassed goodbyes. Casper chuckled at their plight, giving Isaac a pat on the back as he shuffled embarrassedly past them, and soon Clary was giggling along with him. Casper's friends had enjoyed mocking her all night for being the only Shadowhunter there, but, as much as there was to be said about the stiff, pompous attitude of Shadowhunters, at least they didn't have babysitters.

"Now I'm certain I made myself clear about the behavior I expected from my pack. And I know for damn sure that it wasn't _this_." The Alpha gestured in disgust at the group before him, and Casper laughed in derision and amusement.

Even when most of his pack members were gone, the Alpha's eyes still roved their group, accusatory. Some withered under his glare, others glared back defiantly. Clary heard snarls erupt from a trio of vampires, obviously unappreciative of a werewolf's presence. They had tolerated the ones who had just scampered off into the night, assumedly back to their pack's base, but an alpha male was a far different matter from a few rebels looking for trouble.

Clary, for her part, was sizing up 'Luke' just as much as he was sizing up their group. And when he stepped forward to roughly push a lagging werewolf to his feet, he was illuminated by the light of their fire. And when the blue light shone against his skin, Clary noticed something.

_Runes._

Not runes. The scars of runes.

He used to be a Shadowhunter.

Suddenly, a rush of memories flooded her mind, breaking the haze of the identity rune like the shock of freezing water. She heard Valentine's voice telling her about the parabatai he had lost - Lucian. She saw a faded photograph in the attic, amidst countless others – Valentine as a young man, standing next to a boy his age with brown hair and blue eyes and a kind face. It was the same face she found herself looking at now – older, less open and less gentle, but undoubtedly the same man. Lucian.

Luke.

He was standing before her, a werewolf – the alpha of a pack, apparently. And as his gaze traveled over her companions, it was coming closer and closer to her. She felt the desperate urge to run, or hide, but there was nothing she could do. She was trapped.

And then it happened. His gaze found hers. And he froze.

His eyes widened. And then they were filled with light. She saw the thoughts whirling behind his eyes, retracing memories, connecting facts. And then his eyes darkened with dread. Anger.

Fear.

Noticing the intensity of Luke's gaze, now fixed intently on Clary rather than roaming the group, Casper stiffened beside her. His arm around her waist tightened, protectively, and though under normal circumstances it would bother her, in that moment she was grateful.

Because Luke wasn't the only one who was terrified. Valentine hated the man who stood before her now. Lucian had betrayed him. He had conspired against him and nearly killed him, and such betrayal was unforgivable. Valentine had never placed much emphasis on love or sentiments, but loyalty was unwaveringly important to him, and it was a belief he had passed on to his children.

What would Valentine want her to do, Clary wondered? Would he want her to kill Lucian, punish him for his betrayal? Or would Valentine want to do it himself?

Clary and Luke were caught up in each other's gazes, each of them tearing through their memories and their knowledge in an attempt to piece together what was happening. Clary wasn't afraid of Luke himself, but she was afraid of what he could do. From what she had gleaned from photographs, Clary looked like her mother. Not exactly – there was a sharpness to her features that came from her father, a lack of the softness in her mother's face and form – but close enough that Luke had to have recognized her. And there was no doubt that he had – the look in his eyes was the look of someone who had seen a ghost. Or a monster.

Luke decided on a course of action before she did; suddenly he was gone, sprinting in a different direction than the one his subordinates had gone. He wasn't running with fear. He was running with purpose. And, without knowing how, Clary knew exactly what that purpose was – he was going to Jocelyn. He was going to warn her.

She tore after him, leaving Casper's alarmed exclamation behind, and chased him as long as she could through the dark city streets. But she didn't know the city, and her senses were still impaired, and Luke soon lost her in the maze of crowded, loud streets. It was a while before she admitted defeat, but when she hadn't caught sight of him in almost a dozen blocks she realized it was hopeless. She slowed, frustrated and fatigued and dizzy, and leaned against the cool brick of the building behind her.

She didn't know what she would have done if she had caught up with him. Killed him, probably; she had been close to deciding to. A part of her was glad that he had gotten away.

But another part was full of sickening, heart-stopping dread for what he would do. He could tell everyone he knew, every Downworlder and Shadowhunter in New York, who she really was. He could ruin everything – not just _her_ role in Valentine's plans, but the entire plans themselves. And even if he decided not to, he would still tell Jocelyn. There was no doubt about that.

Valentine had told her about Lucian's unrequited love for Jocelyn. It seemed to amuse him, from the way he told the story. Clary didn't have concrete proof that Jocelyn and Luke were associated with each other, but it made too much sense for Clary to deny – what were the odds that they would both end up in the same city, at the same time? What were the odds that Lucian wouldn't have pursued his love for Jocelyn, even though she had abandoned her husband and her family and began a new life? And someone must have helped her leave Valentine – he wasn't the type to let things go easily, if they belonged to him. Even with Clary, who was only away from home temporarily and had proved herself undyingly loyal to him, he was nearly unbearable with the extent to which he pestered and scrutinized her – demanding detailed accounts of everything she did and everyone she spent time with. Escaping him, if she ever decided to do such a thing, would be nearly impossible.

Returning to her worry, she realized she was condemned either way. Even if it was just Jocelyn they had lost, Valentine would make her come home, back to the hell and suffering of his cruelty. And worse, if Luke took a more drastic course of action and their plans were ruined, Valentine would be unfathomably disappointed in her. She hadn't just failed; she had ruined everything he had worked for his entire life. And more than disappointed, he would be angry. Furious. Enraged. If his plans were irreparably ruined, he would probably kill her.

Death didn't scare her. But she worried for Jonathan – if Valentine killed her, Jonathan wouldn't just be alone for a few months like he was now. He would be alone forever. And he wouldn't survive it. Physically he would, she was certain; he was strong and resilient and he never quit. But in the ways that mattered – his humanity, his soul – he wouldn't survive. Not without her.

* * *

Blood ran down Jonathan's back in warm, oozing rivulets. Its warmth against the coolness of his skin was sick and unnerving, and he groaned as pain lanced through his frame once more.

He didn't even remember what he had done anymore, why he was in pain in the first place. It seemed everything he did now angered his father. Ever since Seraphina had left – left _him _– Jonathan's entire existence seemed to be spent in some form of pain and suffering, physical or emotional or mental or otherwise. And much of it seemed to be because of their father.

His father's deep voice drifted through the haze of pain around his consciousness, and though Jonathan couldn't decipher the words themselves, some part of his mind managed to piece together that he was released.

He dragged himself through the cold, dark manor. It seemed almost hollow these days, without the sound of Seraphina's melodious voice or the scent of her sweet skin, like the empty husk of an insect's skin that was left behind when life had crawled out of it. A hollow whistling rang through his ears like howling wind, and he didn't know if it was in the manor or in his mind, but it was haunting and eerie and pained.

Finally, he was there. He opened one of the doors with the frail strength that remained in his limbs. He felt the carpet under his bare feet and the cool air against his even cooler skin, congealing the blood on his back. His sweat grew cold on his forehead and he shivered.

He collapsed onto her bed, sick and shaking. He needed his sister. He needed her. He had thought of nothing but her for days and days, hour after hour, each torturous minute cruelly dragging past, endless and agonized.

"Seraphina," he whispered her name into the darkness of her bedroom. He could feel her presence there, though it was faded and still, absent of the motion and emotion that followed her like a storm.

"Seraphina," he whispered her name again, and imagined her, a world away, lying in the dark just like he was. Whispering his name into the darkness of an empty room. But she didn't have blood covering her skin. She wouldn't rise in the morning to face their father once more, another day of fear and agony. As a child, that thought would have made him jealous. It probably would have made him hate her. But lying there, missing his sister and wondering how she was, the fact that she wasn't subject to their father's cruelty any longer only gave him a deep, aching relief.

He didn't know what she was doing in New York; their father wouldn't tell him. Something had changed in her plans, something that meant she would be gone longer than the two weeks they had planned on together. He _had _to know. He didn't know what was happening, he had to find out.

Because Seraphina was disappearing. Every day, inexplicably, her presence would vanish from him.

Normally – since they were children, when she had bound their souls with a rune – Jonathan could always feel his sister. She lived in his heart and his soul, filling the spaces between his breaths and his heartbeats. She was music and beauty and light, shrouded and enclosed in the darkness of his soul – safe, secret, protected, _his. _

When she had first left, it had been a comfort to feel her there, in his heart. She was gone from him, but he could still feel her like he always had. And he hadn't been afraid, because he had known that if something happened to her, he would feel it. If she were hurt, he would feel it. If she were killed – Angel forbid – he would feel it.

If she loved another, he would feel it.

But suddenly, she had disappeared from him. Her presence had vanished – without warning, without explanation, she was simply… _gone. _For a dreadful, timeless span of unfathomable suffering and anguish, he had believed she was dead. He had gone to their father, nearly mad with his own fury and grief, and told him that Seraphina was _gone _– he couldn't feel her, she had disappeared, she must be dead, they had to do something.

But then a letter had arrived, from Seraphina, for their father. Their father read it and assured Jonathan that Seraphina was, in fact, alive and well. And Jonathan had been certain that someone must have sent it to fool them, because he still couldn't feel her. But then another letter had arrived – a drawing, for him, the one they had made together – and he had known that she must be alive.

And later that day, he knew it was true when suddenly her presence appeared again, bursting back forth into existence in his heart as though she had never left. She felt exactly the same – cool darkness, beautiful pain, poignant intensity. Chaos and passion and sadness. She was unhurt. She still loved him. She was alone.

Why had she disappeared?

And then she had disappeared again, just as suddenly, just as painfully, and he was abandoned to his desolate soul.

For days this had continued. She would be gone all day, and he would spend hours lost in his own darkness, unfathomably pained at how bleak and empty his heart was without her. At night – she only ever returned at night – he would lay in her bed, waiting in breathless, painful anticipation of the moment when she would rush back into his soul like a ray of brilliant darkness, relieving his pain with the familiar essence of herself.

He would stay awake for hours just to feel her while he was there, trying to commit her to memory after years of not having to live without her. He would trace the rune that connected their hearts and recreate in his mind the moment she had carved it into his chest– the burn of the stele and the coolness of her skin, the scent of sunlight, the flash of her eyes meeting his in youthful pleasure. She had invented the rune just for them. _So that we'll always be together, _she had said. He still remembered that day – her every word, every glance, every motion – the day she had tied a golden thread between their hearts.

Was the power of the rune fading? Is that why she was disappearing? But no – when she returned, her presence was as strong and undeniable as ever. She felt exactly the same as she always had. But what could it be, then? He didn't understand. He resolved to write her a letter – he would have to keep their father from finding out, but he could manage that. He had to find out what was happening.

His pain had almost lulled him into a dreamless, black sleep when she finally returned to him. The feeling was familiar now – his empty heart suddenly swelling, his soul aching with poignant relief, the essence of her flooding his senses in a torrent of light and darkness and love and anger. He was angry that she had left. He was inexplicably happy she had returned. He wanted to hurt her; he missed her blood in his mouth. He loved her so much. Her return was deep, aching pain. It was dark, unbridled pleasure. He moaned her name. He shivered.

He settled deeper into her bed and reveled in her renewed presence within him. He reveled in her darkness, her light – the enigmatic, unfathomable contrast within her soul. No one else could possess such beautiful light and such alluring darkness at the same time. No one but her. Seraphina. His light, his love. His heart.

He could feel her sadness most intensely of all. It was always there, in her heart, so large and raging it practically lived and breathed. He reveled in that too – in how it sent pangs through his chest, in how it consumed him, in how beautiful it was.

He had a few hours. She always stayed the night.

And like every night, he would consume her and breathe her, love and pain and beauty and darkness lancing through him all at once. But eventually, the pale morning light of the sunrise would awash her bedroom in a blue tint, and he would feel her rouse from her dreams and awake and for a beautiful moment she would think of him, and then she would disappear once more. And he would be alone. Without light, without love. Without his heart.

* * *

Seraphina collapsed onto her bed, sick and shaking. Blood dripped from her ribcage and onto her sheets from where she had severed the identity rune with the faery dagger. As she lay in her bed, the city loud and bright outside her window, she became aware of her brother's anger and pain, swelling in her heart in the quiet storm she was used to after so many years – the faint rumble of thunder in her ears, the dark clouds drifting through her heart. She couldn't feel him when the identity rune was in effect – she didn't know why – and it had become a source of small joy and relief to slice through her skin and feel him return to her heart in a storm. "Jonathan," she whispered his name into the darkness.

If there was a single shred of light in her dismal situation, it was that she would probably see her brother soon. And oh, how she ached to see him. Not only aching for how much she missed him, but for how worried she was for him. With the identity rune gone, she could feel a phantom pain in her back, and she knew it was Jonathan's pain. She knew it was from their father. She didn't know what, exactly – the blunt ache reminded her of the pain inflicted by metal rods, but there was the sting of a whip there too – but she knew that Jonathan was facing abuse back at the manor. More than the pain in her back, she felt it in her heart. It broke her heart to think of her brother, alone and in pain back in Idris, with her so far away and unable to comfort him.

The stress of spending all night with volatile Downworlders combined with the blurriness of the identity rune meant she hadn't thought about Jonathan as much as she usually did. But it felt as though the time lapse without thoughts of her brother had only made her thoughts of him now that much more poignant, as if they had been compressed and pressurized inside her and were now more forceful because of it. It was a possible side effect of the identity rune that she would need to keep an eye on, she knew. She resolved to break the rune more often, get rid of some of those dark emotions, to prevent them from tearing her apart from the inside out.

She had noticed other things about the identity rune, too. Like how her father became 'Valentine' instead of her 'father.' And how her brother was always 'Jonathan' and never her 'brother.' It seemed that, when creating a new identity for herself, she had subconsciously decided that Clarissa wasn't a part of their family. It didn't surprise her that she had tried to remove herself from her father, but she couldn't understand why she had done it with her brother too. She loved Jonathan. She hated being apart from him.

A faint whisper of doubt – not doubt, confusion – crept into her mind, but she destroyed it as soon as she became aware of it. She _did _love her brother. She _did _miss him. If that weren't true, her heart wouldn't be so broken with the absence of him, with the absence of his dark, deep eyes and his moonlight, starlight hair and his cool fingers and soft, low voice. She missed the challenge and brutality of their fights. She missed his whispers in the dark, spinning fantasies about a life with just the two of them, without their father, free from the pain that had made them so bitter and lost. She missed the feeling of a dark heart beating in time with hers, the comfort of knowing that she wasn't alone in her misery. She missed his hands around her throat. The bruises in the shapes of his fingers. His teeth in her skin and her blood in his mouth.

With the identity rune nearly eliminating him from her thoughts and their father preventing them from communicating properly, Seraphina had never felt so far away from her brother. Not since they were very young, when the pain he inflicted upon her was still unaccompanied by love or affection. Not since before she had thought of a rune – binding souls, syncing hearts – and carved it first into his chest, then into hers, directly above their dark hearts that now beat in harmony.

She rose from her bed and walked to stand in front of her mirror. She ignored her face and her figure and instead lifted up her shirt to look for something else – anything. And – _there _– finally, she found one. A bruise on her back, in the shape of long fingers splaying across her ribcage. She remembered its infliction in a flash of memories – _she heard her brother's footsteps behind her and started running; she didn't want to see him. He found her, he always did. A hiss in her ear, pulled hair, a painful grip around her waist. He held her and made her stay with him. _It had faded into a nearly invisible light blue, and soon it would be gone completely, and then the last physical reminder of her brother would be gone too.

She tore her eyes away from the painful reminder – painful in so many different ways, it seemed nearly impossible – but was then faced with her reflection instead, and it wasn't a prettier sight by any means. It wasn't her physical appearance that displeased her; she didn't think about it much, but she was self-aware enough to know she wasn't ugly. But that didn't mean she liked what she saw when she looked into her eyes, or saw the cruel twist to her smile. She felt disgust roil in her stomach. Disgust for herself, deep and rooted.

It had been easy to deny her own faults when she was surrounded by the Downworlders who shared them with her. But her encounter with Simon had brought them into sharp, unforgiving focus. And, though her fear had overshadowed it at the time, her encounter with Luke had done the same – Lucian, the man who had chosen exile and damnation over Valentine's madness, and risked his life for Jocelyn and his love for her, love she didn't deserve in the first place. Luke loved Jocelyn, and so he had risked his life for her and betrayed the partner of his soul for her and followed her to the mundane world where he begun a new life for her. Seraphina loved her brother, but still she had left him, alone and hurting, to obey her father. Now they were both suffering, because it wasn't in her heart to disobey the man she loved and feared and hated and admired. Even compared to Luke – Lucian, the traitor; Lucian, the exiled; Lucian, the damned – Seraphina was selfish and weak, cold and cruel. A coward.

Seraphina had been so different, once, as a child. So trusting and gentle and selfless, always thinking about her brother or her father and their happiness and desires. She wasn't like that anymore. She still thought of them before herself, but it wasn't for the same reasons.

When she was a child, she obeyed her father out of love. He was a hero; an angel; a tall, bright figure of light and strength shining against the blackness of a dark world full of terrible things she didn't understand. Her emotions had grown more complicated since then – there was still love there, deep-rooted and ingrained, but it was tainted and distorted with fear and resentment and the bitterness that came from years of suffering. Her father was no longer bright, no longer shining. An angel no more. He was brilliant and powerful and admirable, but he was darkness and cruelty and pain – hatred in his heart, insanity in his brilliance, carnage in his love.

When she was a child, she obeyed Jonathan out of a strange mixture of love and fear and admiration and pity. Her young heart had been far too soft and weak to sort through those emotions and make sense of them, but Jonathan had been skillful in manipulating those feelings, and he had changed eventually, and her feelings towards him had calmed into a chaos that could only be called love – confusing, unusual, unhealthy, perhaps, but it was love.

And despite her self-loathing, it was a love she had sacrificed much for. Jonathan had been born without love, without empathy or kindness; she wasn't idealistic enough to deny that. And if it weren't for her, he would have lived his entire life that way – loveless, cruel, empty. But she _had _been there, and she had saved him, as much as she could have.

But the experience hadn't left her unscathed. She remembered being different; innocent, trusting, her life of light – both bright and weightless – free from the weight of misery. She had drawn pictures of flowers and angels and sunlight, and made stories to go with them – stories of princes and love and magic. She had loved her family devotedly and completely, without the slightest concept that it was incomplete or impure.

Now she drew pictures of monsters and blood and pain, and she didn't need to write stories for them because all of the stories were true – nightmares that breathed, ink black, from her soul onto paper, spinning the fabric of her nightmarish world and hidden memories. Now she knew her family was broken and awful, and the knowledge was a constant thorn in her chest that cracked her heart when she breathed.

She had always lived her life in a moral gray area, out of necessity – she had been innocent once, as a child, but there came a time when she realized she would have to choose between morality and her brother. She couldn't have both. If she wanted to be a good person, she would have to leave her brother – entrenched in moral blackness, dark to the core – behind. And she couldn't do that. She couldn't leave him. So she sacrificed her fantasies of a life full of kindness and compassion and love. She took those emotions and poured them all into him, hoping they would ease his pain. Change him, maybe.

But pouring those moments of light into him left nothing for her to use for herself or anyone else. She hoped they were still in her brother's heart, rays of light piercing the blackness of his soul. She hoped his darkness hadn't merely absorbed them like a black hole, obliterating them and tearing them apart in the violence of his own misery. She chose to believe they had changed him. How else could he love her the way he did? And she also knew that she needed to believe they had. Because if she didn't, that meant her sacrifice was wasted. The Angel knew she could have used some of that light for herself. Look where she had ended up without it. A lost, bitter shell of a person. She needed a rune that stripped her of her essence just so she wouldn't lose her mind, just so her heart wouldn't shatter into unrecognizable shards of what it used to be.

She tore her gaze away from her reflection. She returned to her bed and collapsed on it once more, returning her focus to the noise of the city. Somewhere out there, Luke had found Jocelyn and told her what he had discovered – her daughter, raised by the man she hated and betrayed, had found her in her hiding place of fifteen years. It was horrible to feel so helpless, but Seraphina knew there was nothing she could do. Not until she knew exactly what Jocelyn's reaction had been.

In the morning – or later that day, rather, since it already was morning – Seraphina would have to face the consequences of her mistake. But that was later. Seraphina pushed her thoughts of her mother away into the black abyss and focused instead on other, simpler things. Her brother's pain pulsing in her back. The bruise that ached when her ribs expanded to breathe. Her brother's dark storm in her chest and the invisible thread that tied their dark hearts together.

* * *

**Fools be playin' games. Comin' at each other reckless, na mean.**

**This was the last chapter of set-up stuff, I promise. **

**I know that in the books, Clary looks a _lot _like her mother. I changed that on purpose - in this story, she has more of her father's features (pale complexion [no freckles], more angular features, killer cheekbones, etc.).I actually wrote out a long passage about the ways Clary looks different from her mother, but it didn't fit well anywhere with this chapter; everywhere I put it felt awkward. Maybe I'll find a place for it sometime. Anyway, in the real TMI, I thought it was symbolic that Clary didn't have much of Valentine in her (appearance-wise, at least). So in this story, I thought that might be different, for obvious reasons. Symbolism, yo. **

**Many of you will enjoy the next chapter. Can you guess why? **

**Feel free to share your opinions on this chapter with me. Even if you hated it. **

**I promise I'll appreciate you either way. Your opinion matters. **

**You're a star. Yeah, _you. _**

**Yeah. **


	10. Chapter 10

**I made a playlist for this story. The link is on my profile. **

******There are 10 people who still like this story. *dramatic whisper* This is for you.**

* * *

_ "Study me as much as you like, you will never know me, for I differ a hundred ways from what you see me to be. Put yourself behind my eyes, and see me as I see myself, for I have chosen to dwell in a place you cannot see." – Rumi_

* * *

Seraphina awoke with the jolting feeling that she had slept too long. Sure enough, the sun was low in the sky outside her window – setting, not rising. Under normal circumstances, she would have forgiven herself; she hadn't gotten home until early that morning. But her plans with Simon were for that night, on the other side of town. And she needed to get to the post office to send a letter to her father before it closed, and that was in the opposite direction.

She jumped out of bed and scrambled to get ready, putting on a dark green t-shirt and a black denim skirt. She hastily carved the identity rune into her ribcage, sparing a fleeting thought for her brother before she did so, and then rushed to collect her things. Her sketchbook and a black jacket were thrown into her backpack, the dagger was tucked into one black boot, and her latest letter to Valentine was torn from the pad of paper and hastily enveloped.

Clary was hurriedly pulling her hair back into a loose ponytail when she saw it – a flash of gold in her peripheral vision. It had been in the alley below her bedroom window. She remembered seeing the same thing the night before, with Casper. Her brow furrowing as she pondered it – it hadn't looked like a cat – she turned back to the mirror to finish her hair.

And then, this time in the reflection in the mirror, she saw it again. She whipped her head around so quickly that her neck cracked loudly – and painfully. "Bitch," she groaned irritably. She was not having a good day – night – and she hadn't even made it outside yet.

The night air was humid and heavy when she stepped outside, the city loud and moving as the Friday night crowd pooled into the city. The air smelled of car exhaust and heat and people and litter, and she yearned for the clean smell of trees and rain and grass, in Idris. She wanted to go home, she thought with an ache in her chest. But if she wanted to go home, she had to finish here first. So, she reiterated to herself sternly, she would be nice to Simon, she would find out what he knew, and she would find her mother (and her father _wouldn't _find out that she had lost Jocelyn in the first place).

"Girl!" she heard a voice exclaim behind her. She turned to see her landlord leaning out of her window, her wrinkled face stern and angry like it always was.

"Yes, Aksinya?" Clary felt uncomfortable calling an elder by their first name, but Aksinya had insisted. Clary realized she didn't even _know _the woman's last name.

"You leave home very late," the old woman said, her real eye glaring with disapproval while the other, glass and the wrong color by a few shades, remained flat and cool.

"Yes..." Clary trailed off, not sure what to say.

"You come home very late," Aksinya continued in her thick Russian accent.

"Yes," Clary said again, still uncertain and uncomfortable.

"Is not respectable for young girl from a good family."

"I'm just getting used to the time difference, Aksinya," Clary said, fighting the urge to say, _What makes you think I come from a good family?_ A comment like that would only lengthen the conversation, though, and sure enough Aksinya withdrew into her apartment with a dismissive gesture that indicated her exasperation. Aksinya was very nosy, Clary had discovered, and to her dismay the old woman had taken a particular interest in Clary. She wondered if her father was paying the woman to spy on her. It wouldn't be surprising.

It was the eleventh conversation of the like that Clary had had with her landlord. And, for the eleventh time, the same group of young men were loitering on the street outside her building. She endured their catcalls with grim fortitude, walking past them without showing the slightest trace of emotion or discomfort. _Animals_, she thought disdainfully, but she kept the thought to herself. She still had places to be, and she was still late.

She cut the corner quickly to get away from the boys, and with the sudden movement she saw it again – gold in the corner of her eye. Once more, it reminded her of seeing the same sight just the night before. At the time, she had been preoccupied – Casper's hands were on her hips, his mouth on hers, his eyes were flashing with emotions she couldn't afford to ignore – but with a slow burn of suspicion growing in her chest, she began to wonder if she shouldn't have discounted the occurrence so quickly.

By now, she knew the walk to the post office well. She recognized the gnarled tree that she always passed, three blocks into her trip. She saw the same cats lounging in apartment windows, the same cars parked on the street. Clary had been to the post office every day since she had arrived in New York; Valentine expected it from her. That meant this was her eleventh trip to the small, dingy room in the lower level of an old building, and it went exactly as she expected it to – for a while, at least.

For the eleventh time, she was greeted by the warlock girl – her name was Nicolette, Clary had learned – with a delicate sigh and rolling eyes. For the eleventh time, Nicolette presented her with a letter from Valentine on heavy parchment, then waved her to the back room where the portal was – the girl's sour attitude aside, Clary was glad she wasn't nosy.

And for the eleventh time, just as she stepped in front of the portal to deposit her letter for Valentine, a boxed package flew from the swirling colors and collided sharply with Clary's face.

She yelped in surprise, her cheekbone smarting. She reached down to flip the package over and – for the eleventh time – saw it was addressed to "M.B." Exhaling angrily, she gave the parcel a sharp kick and then threw her own letter into the portal, watching it disappear into blackness as it always did. The letter itself was practically meaningless – she hadn't mentioned anything about Luke, figuring she might as well live out her luck as long as she could, and still possessing the small hope that maybe she could fix the problem before Valentine found out about it. Find Luke, somehow, and by extension, Jocelyn, and then fix things… somehow. But that meant she had almost nothing to tell Valentine. Unless she wanted to tell him about her date with a warlock. She shuddered at the thought. She knew that, when he had asked her to get to know Downworlders, that wasn't at all what he had meant. But she figured that as long as she got the job done, what he didn't know wouldn't hurt him. She had never been fond of his rules; her personality had always been incompatible with that kind of strictness, and she found gratification in small disobediences.

Valentine would be getting restless, now. She had to get moving, and quickly. But she had no idea where to start. How would she find Luke? And Jocelyn? Valentine had expected initial contact on her first day in the city, and she had long since run out of excuses. She wished she could send a letter to Jonathan, too – he would know what to do, or at least have some sort of idea – but after a few days of long, detailed letters to him and no response, she knew he wasn't getting her messages. He would answer if he had, she knew that. Valentine was keeping them from him, keeping with his word that they should spend some time apart. She hoped, eventually, Valentine would realize they were better together than they were separated.

She was distracted from her worry when the package she had kicked started rattling behind her, and she thought about kicking it again. What was it with "M.B." and why was it always _their _packages that contained disturbing, moving contents? More importantly, she thought while rubbing her stinging cheek, why did their packages always seem to fly violently out of the portal when _she_ was in front of it?

The sound of an argument – Nicolette's high, sharp voice accompanied by the lower tones of a man – was approaching the portal room. Clary childishly looked for somewhere to hide, already uncomfortable with the prospect of being part of the confrontation, only to find she didn't have many options.

And then, an irritated Nicolette and her companion arrived in the doorway. " – absolutely _ridiculous_," Nicolette was saying, her already pink cheeks flushed a dark magenta in her ire. "Do you have any idea how illegal it is to send them by _mail_? I could lose my license!"

A strangely tall, strangely slender man in ostentatious clothing followed her into Clary's line of sight, rolling his eyes. "Oh, _relax_," he said, his tone much more good-natured than Nicolette's. "It was _one _time."

Behind Clary, the package rattled again, and this time her keen hearing picked up a soft, eerie tittering.

"Really? _One time_?" Nicolette challenged angrily. "Because _that_," she gestured sharply at the package, "sounded a lot like the _eleventh time_."

"Well, if you insist on being difficult," he put an affectionate arm around her shoulders but she shook him off, "Maybe we could just consider this… a favor?"

"And what, pray tell, could I _possibly _have to gain from this situation?"

The man seemed to think about it for a minute, and while he did Clary examined him in curiosity and wonderment. He was a warlock; she could see from the cat pupils of his amber eyes. That was Casper's warlock mark, too, and she wondered if it was a coincidence or if there was some sort of reason for it. It certainly didn't _look_ like they had anything in common. Where Casper was all cool darkness and guile, the man before her was vibrant – sun-tanned skin and bright clothing and glittering hair – practically glowing, handsome in a much different way.

Nicolette quirked an eyebrow at him, waiting for a response, and suddenly his eyes lit up. "I've got it!" he exclaimed, and reached into his multi-colored jacket for a piece of paper that he withdrew in a shower of glitter before handing to her.

Her eyebrow remained raised – dubious, unyielding – as she examined the paper, and then she rolled her eyes. "This is an invitation to a party," she said flatly.

"It's an invitation to…" he paused, seemingly for dramatic effect, "_the _party."

"_The _party," she repeated mockingly, and then her voice rose in anger "that you _already invited me to, moron._"

The warlock threw out his hands in exasperation. "Well _Christ_, woman, what else do you want from me?"

"I _want _you to stop executing your illegal dealings through _my _post office!" she exclaimed shrilly.

Clary's discomfort at having to watch their argument had reached a level she couldn't ignore any longer – confrontation of any kind made her nervous, jittery, uncomfortable – but the pair were still blocking the doorway. Nervously, uncertainly, she cleared her throat, thinking maybe they hadn't noticed her there, and then stepped forward lightly towards the door, hoping they would let her aside.

Nicolette turned to her in irritation but then squeaked in fear. "Oh, Clarissa! I forgot you were back here. I –" her eyes widened in horror, probably because she realized she had just spoken about illegal Downworlder activities in front of a Shadowhunter. "When I said _illegal_," she laughed nervously, her voice still stuttering and shrill, "I didn't mean… well, I meant –"

"It's fine, Nicolette, I really don't care," Clary assured her, and it was true.

"See, Nick?" the man said with a gesture in Clary's direction. "No reason to be worried. _Or _angry," he added pointedly. Nicolette rolled her eyes and left in a huff, crumpling the party invitation and throwing it to the floor as she did so.

The warlock's feline eyes held an easy sense of laughter when they turned to Clary, and he flashed her a wide smile, white teeth, straight, with pointed incisors. He brushed past her and retrieved his package – the one that, like the ten before it, was addressed to M.B. The one that, like the ten before it, had hit her on its way out of the portal. "She's a handful, isn't she?" He said it good-naturedly, as one might refer to a rambunctious kitten.

Instead of answering, she demanded, "You're M.B.?"

"Magnus Bane," the warlock declared with flourish.

She didn't take the hand he offered her. "You're mail smacks in the face on a daily basis," she informed him.

"Maybe you shouldn't stand so close to the portal, Miss…"

"Nightshade."

"Shadowhunters and their ridiculous names," he drawled. "What's the purpose of shade at night? It's already dark."

Something about the way his golden, feline eyes looked glazed in the lighting and the drawl of his speech gave Clary suspicion. When he stumbled against a pile of boxes, sending them toppling in a loud cacophony of unpleasant noise, and then groaned and clutched his head, she was nearly certain. "Are you _drunk_?" she asked.

"Not as much, anymore," he groaned.

"But… it's so early."

"Late, darling. It's late."

"It's 9 at night. You're both wrong." Nicolette was back, leaning her willowy frame against the doorframe as she examined her long pink nails in cool appraisal. She seemed to have calmed down, but her irritation was still evident in the set of her shoulders and the purse of her lips. "I'm leaving for the night. Both of you, out."

"But _Nicky_," Magnus drew out the word in a petulant whine, and Nicolette grimaced at the nickname. "I'm still waiting for some mail."

"Sounds like a personal problem, _Maggie. _Tell your friends to send their mail when the post office is _open. _If they can't manage that, you'll have to come back in the morning."

A sharp corner rammed into Clary's skull and she yelped in pain, jumping to the side. Magnus picked up the offending parcel – Clary now saw it, too, was addressed "_M.B._" – with a delighted smile. "No need! Thanks Darknight, if it weren't for you that might have hit me."

"God forbid," Clary muttered, rubbing her sore skull.

"Don't be bitter," Magnus reprimanded. "It's off-putting."

"_You_ should be off pudding."

It took him a minute, but then, "I am _not _fat."

"_Get,_" Nicolette's voice was low and dangerous behind them, "_out_."

Magnus threw an arm around Clary's shoulder as they walked the hallway towards the exit, pinning her against his side and making her instantly uncomfortable. She had allowed Casper to touch her, but that was different – Casper was useful, he served a purpose.

She could feel the warlock's slender ribs through the fabric of the mesh shirt under his jacket. She tried to pull away; even if he weren't a warlock, she would be uncomfortable with how much taller he was than her. It didn't seem like he planned on attacking her, and she knew she could kill him easily if he did, but Valentine had always told her that warlocks were unpredictable, capricious. Magnus didn't let her pull away, but he did loosen his grip a bit.

"Listen, about this whole post office fiasco," he began, his voice more serious than it had been before so that now she could hear better the accent on his vowels, the hoarseness in his words, like a cat's purr. "Nothing's quite as awful as Nicolette made it sound, I assure you. She's quite prone to melodrama, unfortunately. But still," they had reached the door, and now he turned to face her, his eyes far above her and glowing in the low lighting. "If it's all the same to you…"

"I won't tell anyone," Clary answered his unasked question.

"Excellent," he said with another flashing smile, but there was still danger in his posture and the baring of his teeth. "Perhaps there's something I could do for you, in return…" he trailed off, enquiringly.

She knew he wasn't asking out of friendliness, but to ensure his safety from the Clave. If he could create a situation of mutual interest, he would be safer. And that's exactly why she said, "No, thank you. I don't mind keeping it to myself." She had no interest in beginning a relationship of debt and favors with a warlock. The mere thought of it was deplorable.

But her answer had made him nervous, it seemed, and he followed her closely out of into the hot night air. She really _wasn't _going to report him to the Clave, but she understood his wariness.

That didn't mean it wasn't annoying, though.

"Darknight – "

"It's Nightshade," she corrected him.

"What?"

"My last name. It's Nightshade."

"You should consider changing it. Darknight is much cooler. Like Batman."

Clary had absolutely no clue what he was talking about it. Instead of admitting so, though, she only said, "Right, well, it was nice meeting you Magnus. But I'm late for something, so..."

Unfortunately for her, Magnus was apparently going in the same direction. She was giving the sore spot on the back of her head another rub when he caught up to her. "Sorry about the bruise, Batman. Here, you can have this, I guess." She turned to see he was holding out a bright slip of sparkling paper. Through the copious amounts of glitter she was able to decipher that it was an invitation to a party.

"You're throwing a…" the glitter was so thick in one area that she could barely see the letters. "Chairman Mao party?" she asked incredulously. There were communist warlocks? Could warlocks _get _any worse?

"Chairman _Meow. _My cat."

She said, "That's even weirder."

Magnus rolled his eyes and muttered, "_Shadowhunters_." More loudly, he said, "Well, I wouldn't want a Shadowhunter there anyway. You lot are no fun at all. _Don't _come." And with a sharp turn that sent glitter fluttering into Clary's face, he walked away from her

"I wasn't going to anyway," she muttered after his retreating, slender form, but she stuffed the invitation in her backpack instead of throwing it away. She knew he had only invited her as a last ditch effort to persuade her not to report him for whatever illegal activities were happening at the post office. Not that she would; as disgusted as Valentine was with Downworlders, he was just as disgusted with the Clave – "corrupt," "indolent," "self-indulgent," she could almost hear his voice. Until Valentine's plans were complete and the Clave was created anew, reporting corruption or illegality to that pathetic group of bumbling idiots was redundant.

And maybe those plans could actually be _completed _if Valentine hadn't added so many useless additions to her original mission. Here she was, hurrying across town to meet a vampire, when she _could _be looking for Jocelyn. Irritation for Valentine flared in her chest, but she knew it was only an excuse, an outlet for her frustration with herself. She hadn't been performing well since she had arrived in New York. In fact, she was ruining almost everything.

Clary's thoughts were interrupted when she saw a flash of gold. And it _wasn't_ a cat.

She forced herself to ignore the distractions that surrounded her – flashing lights, the deafening traffic, the endless ebb and flow of bodies – and concentrate on the issue. _This is important_, she told herself sternly. She had become so practiced in denying the truth – the truth of her memories, of her family, of herself – that sometimes it was difficult to anchor herself in reality. But this was real. This was important. She tore herself from her mind and immersed herself in her surroundings; her feet against the pavement, the cooling of the night air against her bare arms and legs as the sun set behind tall buildings, the racing of her heart and the rhythm of her breathing.

_Think_, she told herself. And then she realized just how often she had seen that exact same sight, a flash of gold in the corner of her eye as she turned a corner or glanced at something beside her. The first time had been the day after the Pandemonium, she managed to decipher. And almost every day after that, she had seen it at least once.

"_Damn it_," she whispered to herself, dread growing in her chest.

And, even more than dread, she felt the clawing pain of self-hatred, embarrassment, shame. She was falling apart, and she knew it. She had been before she had even left Idris. Before she had left Jonathan. Her brother.

Things were starting to slip past her, reality was starting to slip away from her, and the harder she tried to grasp it the more it drifted away from her, like smoke. The incident with Felix, the disaster with Luke, and now this golden shadow – all of it felt like a dream, distant events from a world she wasn't living in. And she _hadn't _been living in that world. She hadn't been living in reality. She had been living in her head, in her memories and her secrets, in her worry for her family. And now she was paying the consequences for her madness.

And that's what it was, wasn't it? Madness. How else could she explain the way her emotions were living things, apart from her rather than a part of her, breathing blackness from the bottom of her heart? The way she was hardly ever in touch with reality, living immersed in her emotions and her thoughts instead. The way her memories recreated themselves before her eyes, forcing her to relive them over and over, unless she suppressed them and suffocated them and denied their existence. The way she was two people at once now, if such a thing were even possible.

_Stop_, she told herself, silencing her thoughts and tearing herself from her self-pity. There was still time to fix this. She could still do something, _anything_, to avoid disappointing her father completely. She pushed the remnants of her sudden emotional outburst back down, deep into her chest, stifling them. That was better.

Cool, composed, calm.

Uninvolved, distant, silent.

Back to normal.

Still cool, still empty, she turned a corner into a dark alley instead of continuing her walk to the subway, and pressed herself close to the wall to wait in coiled anticipation. It wasn't over yet.

And then – a shadow's flicker, golden hair, a light footstep – she sprang, colliding into a lean body much taller than hers, delivering a stinging blow that was undeniably hostile, though not lethal. A deep, male voice cursed in surprise and she spun away from the hand that reached out for her – open-palmed, fingers extended and curling, not to hit her back but to grab her, restrain her.

If anything, it only made her angrier. She hit his wrist to push his hand away and then hit him again, a jab to the ribs with about half of her strength. She heard him hiss out a pained breath and felt a flash of satisfaction, but then he was coming towards her, a fist flying towards her ribcage. She leapt to the side and his fist hit the brick wall instead, and his pained shout was followed by a string of expletives.

She had made him angry, now. _Good_, she thought. As tormented as she was, as distracted as her emotions could make her, she had never faltered in a fight because of it. Valentine had trained her to work through things like that. Emotionally, mentally, she was vulnerable and weak. But in battle she was unstoppable. She would never lose, not to anyone but her brother.

He was coming at her with more force now, and she could feel his anger buffeting her psyche. In the seconds before he reached her she noticed the Marks on his skin and sighed in frustration, withdrawing her hand from her boot where she had been reaching for her dagger. As hostile as he may seem – following her, and now, fighting her – she couldn't hurt him, not badly, until he proved himself more dangerous. She couldn't hurt another Shadowhunter. That knowledge was ingrained in her, an instinct as natural and commanding as breathing.

But that didn't mean she couldn't kick his ass.

He wasn't trying to grab her anymore. Now he was trying to hit her. She dodged his fist again and swiped at his torso, only managing a glancing scuff as he dodged her blow. Given his size, he was faster than she had anticipated.

In his next move, he actually did manage to hit her – an open-palmed shove that sent her shoulder into the brick wall of the alleyway. As natural as it was for her to seek space for maneuvering, it seemed natural to him to try and corner her. He knew he was bigger. He knew he could overpower her if it was a battle of brute strength.

But she wasn't going to let that happen. She launched into a flurry of maneuvers. Some hits landed, some didn't, but she could sense from his posture and movement that he was surprised by her speed and fervor.

He recovered from his surprise and leapt for her. He had extended both arms to reach for her, probably to force her against the wall again, and in doing so had left his torso exposed. It was the perfect opening for a kick at his ribcage or his abdomen, but she was wearing a skirt, so she only spun out of the way; she was faster than him.

As she leapt away from him, he noticed and averted his course. And, _there_, she saw it – the instant he shifted his weight, the split second of vulnerability before he could regain his balance in his new direction – and she knew it was over. She would win. She leapt at the perfect moment, springing forward and colliding with the hard muscle of his chest. He stumbled backwards and then fell, and then they were rolling across the gravel. Clary felt the stinging scrape against her skin, felt the jarring collision of her bones against the concrete, and the warm skin of the boy who was falling with her. She tensed her muscles, pushing herself up to stop her tumble, and when the pair of them finally came to a stop she was on top of his chest, pinning him down. She allowed herself a fleeting moment of satisfaction; she had won. But then she felt vibrations in the boy's chest, his torso shaking beneath her, and she looked down at him, confused.

He was _laughing _at her. She was stunned for a moment, and then she was angry. Her anger was sharp, almost vibrant, and it burst past her barrier like a swarming wave of restless energy. She couldn't remember the last time she had felt something so intensely. She wanted to kill him.

"Usually," the boy said, "When girls jump me, it isn't quite like this." His voice was deep, rich, but young, and it sent vibrations through her skin where she rested on his chest.

Scowling, she pulled away from him hastily, her anger cooling in her chest as she slowly returned to normal. That was the _second _time that day her self-control had faltered. Maybe the identity rune wasn't working as well anymore.

But she had more important things to think about. Like the boy in front of her – her age, maybe a little older; tan skin; blonde hair and gold eyes; tall, slender but lean with muscle – rising to his feet, still smirking, though at least he wasn't laughing anymore. Clary didn't think she had ever been laughed at before. It was an awful feeling.

"That was quite the introduction," the boy said, and his smirk was swiftly beginning to infuriate her.

"You've been _following _me," she said viciously.

"Yes," he agreed simply, "And _you've _been getting into a fair bit of trouble haven't you, little girl."

Her cooling anger suddenly reheated, burning in her chest. "Who do you think you are?" she demanded.

"Jace Wayland," he introduced himself, extending a hand towards her with his smirk still in place. _Of course _he interpreted that literally, she thought, exasperated. She didn't shake his hand, and she was satisfied to see his smirk falter a bit.

"And you are…?" he asked.

"Followed me for a week and you still haven't figured out my name? You aren't very good at this, are you?"

He rolled his eyes. "And _you _would be better at it, I presume?"

"Probably," she answered. "I'm better at fighting, that's for sure."

His eyes narrowed. "That was hardly a fight," he said, and his voice had lost its humorous edge.

"Call it what you want," she replied, and her voice was just as dangerous. "_I won._"

She could see that Jace was angry, and figured he must be nearly as competitive as she was. But when he spoke again, he seemed to have composed himself, and his voice had lost some of its venom. "Combat is always different when the intent isn't to kill, don't you think? Maybe if we had possessed the same motivation, it would have worked out differently."

It was a surprisingly perceptive thing to say, but Clary knew she would have won in any situation. Another Shadowhunter was one of the most challenging matches available to her, but she wasn't a normal Shadowhunter. She was stronger, faster, better trained. Valentine had seen to that, and she had no intention of putting his efforts to waste.

"And what exactly _is _your motivation, Wayland?" she asked.

"I'd prefer to know your name first." There was a fire in his eyes as he said it, like discovering her name meant more to him than it should.

"Clarissa Nightshade," she said shortly, and then she amended, "Clary." She had a feeling Jace was a nickname of some sort – Shadowhunters tended to stick to more traditional names – and that was how he had introduced herself.

"Well, Clary," he began, his lighthearted arrogance steadily returning, "Given the buildup, my true motivation isn't really all that exciting. I've been sent to bring you to the Institute."

"Sent by whom?"

"Hodge."

"And what does Hodge want?"

"To speak with you, that's all," Jace said. Clary couldn't imagine what 'Hodge' wanted to speak to her about, but her curiosity was nowhere near strong enough to drive her to disobey Valentine's orders.

"Is that so?" Clary asked with a quirked eyebrow, and Jace nodded. "It's too bad, though – I don't think I want to."

"What?" he asked, surprised, and she was satisfied to see the grin fall from his lips.

"I said," she answered, enunciating slowly, "That I don't want to go to the Institute with you. And I'm not going to." Valentine had forbidden her from going to the Institute, and she wasn't interested in getting herself into trouble. Well, _more _trouble than she was already in, if he found out about Lucian.

"But… Shadowhunters always check in at the local Institute when they travel," Jace protested, confused. "You should have come to the Institute anyway."

"I'm not here long," Clary said, already backing away from him.

"No, hold on." Jace stepped forward, intent on following her, so she stopped walking. "Can't you just stop in for a few minutes? Hodge _really _wants to speak with you."

"Sorry, no." She began to leave again. She didn't know who Hodge was, but Valentine wanted her contact with the local Shadowhunters to be limited. Nonexistent, actually. And she _wasn't _going to break a direct order from him again. She had ruined things enough already.

"Clary," Jace, and his voice had sharpened with determination and warning. She stopped walking again. "It's only one conversation," he said it as though he were comforting a frightened animal; wary, cornered, claws extended. "I'm supposed to bring you back, and I will." The threat in his voice, thinly veiled, was dark and foreboding. Rather than afraid, Clary felt only indignant. Just who did _Jace Wayland _think he was?

"Unfortunately, Jace," Clary said with fabricated sympathy, vexed, "It looks like you don't stand a very good chance if you have to revert to force."

His gaze darkened at that, and in them she saw a hunter's instinct igniting. She wondered if he would restart their fight out of competitiveness alone – that's what she would do – but he remained where he was, fists curled at his sides as if in self-restraint, eyes on her. She adopted a more sincere tone when she said, "I'm sorry Jace. I don't want to get you into trouble." Angel knows she knew how frustrating it was to be trapped by the orders you had been given, subordinated and powerless. "But I can't go to the Institute. I don't have the time. And, like I said, I'm not here long. Tell Hodge to send a letter if it's really that important. You know my address after all." The last part was said scathingly as she left again, this time turning her back on him as she did.

For a moment, she felt relief. Valentine had told her not to get involved with the Shadowhunters in New York, and she had just avoided doing so. There was one thing she hadn't ruined, at least.

But then, "I know where he went," Jace called after her, taunting, challenging.

She kept walking for a few steps, obstinate, but her resolve faded as her curiosity got the best of her. She turned back to him. "What?" she demanded.

"That werewolf, the one you ran after last night. I followed him after you lost him. I know where he went."

Her heart jumped in her chest. The urge to get away from Jace was so strong that she almost walked away anyway, but then she thought of Valentine. Jonathan. She _had _to find Luke. "Tell me," she said harshly.

"I will," he said with a smirk. "_If _you come back to the Institute with me."

Fury sparked in her chest. He had her trapped, and he knew it. She may have won their fight, but he was winning in a fight that was far more important. "_Why_?" she asked, and she knew she sounded whiny and petulant. But she had been so miserable since leaving home, and everything only seemed to be getting worse, and she was so _tired_. She didn't need this to worry about, too.

"Not sure," Jace shrugged. "Hodge wants to see you, so he asked me to bring you to him."

"And what if I told you I didn't _care _where the werewolf went, anyway?" she challenged.

"I wouldn't believe you." The infuriating smirk was still on his face. "You don't chase someone for a mile in this heat unless you r_eally _want to catch them."

"Fine, you caught me," she said, in a falsely saccharine tone and a sardonic smirk to rival his. "I do _really _want to catch him. I want to find him _so _badly, in fact, that I'm almost certain I'll find a way to do it myself."

"Well, you don't look particularly strong. Or hard to carry." His eyes raked across her, examining her, and it made her want to collapse into herself and disappear.

"Are you threatening to _kidnap _me?" she asked incredulously.

"I'm only letting you know that I have my orders, and I'll do what I have to do to get them done." Maybe they weren't so different, after all.

"Are you forgetting five minutes ago? When I kicked your ass?" she taunted.

The smirk fell from his face again, and she felt a flash of satisfaction. "You caught me by surprise," he protested indignantly. "I'd like to see you manage that well in a _fair _fight."

"We don't have the luxury of _fair _fights very often, though, do we?" she said pointedly.

He knew that by 'we' she meant Shadowhunters. "No, I suppose not," he admitted grudgingly. "We _also _don't usually fight _each other_."

She almost said, _Sometimes we do._ He would know what she meant – Valentine, the Circle, the massacre at the Accords. But she stopped herself short. .

"Please, just come to the Institute," Jace implored, more sincere than he had been before. "I can help you, you can help me. It isn't that hard."

She knew he was right. She was only being stubborn; she hated the idea of needing anyone for anything, and she hated that he had trapped her to get what he wanted. But she needed to find Luke. "Alright," she said slowly, and his smirk was back.

"But not right now," she said, clambering desperately to find some sense of power, somewhere, even if it was only a little. "I have plans."

"What sort of plans?" Jace asked suspiciously.

"Plans with a friend." She was _really _late meeting Simon; she wondered if he was still waiting for her or if he had given up.

"Where do you have to go?" he asked.

"Brooklyn."

Jace made a face. "Ugh," he said in disgust. "Brooklyn. What a dreadful place."

"Good thing they're _my _plans and not yours, then."

"How do I know you won't just run away?"

"You don't, I guess," she said coolly, still grasping for a feeling that wasn't utter helplessness. "I'm late." She brushed past him to leave the alley.

"Hold on," he said warningly, and he grabbed her upper arm. She jumped and his grip tightened.

"Let go," she demanded indignantly, but he only used his grip to turn her and make her face him. She pulled away but he grabbed her waist, stopping her. His grip wasn't violent or bruising, like her brother's, but it was firm.

"You need to go to the Institute," he said, his face very close to hers. "And _I_ need to take you."

He had come so close that her face was almost against his chest, and she pulled back to look at him. She had to crane her neck to meet his eyes. "I _will _go to the Institute with you," she said, hoping she sounded convincing. "After I meet my friend."

His brow furrowed in skepticism. "I promise," she added pleadingly, and then his gaze softened a bit. Shadowhunters never broke promises, and they didn't make them often.

"Alright," Jace said, his voice quiet and his gaze still burning. He was still holding her. They stood like that for a moment, too long. His skin was warm. She hadn't realized she was cold until he touched her. His eyes reminded her of the sun in the Idrisian summer, gold and molten and burning. His hair was golden, too, and his skin. Everything about him reminded her of sunlight. "I'm trusting you," he said, and his voice was much darker than his eyes. It was a threat, not an assurance.

"I know," she said. Finally, he released her, stepping away slowly. She felt cold again, even though the air was muggy and hot.

"Can I meet you when you're done?" Jace asked.

"Yes," she answered. But then, realizing a flaw in her plan, she added, "But I'm not sure where I'll be. I know where we're meeting, but…" Given it was a vampire bar, "I'm not sure we'll stay there too long."

"I'll find you," Jace said with a smirk.

"Yes, I'm sure you will," she snapped. "But do me a favor and be more discreet this time? I don't want to see you every time I turn a corner."

"You won't even know I'm there," Jace promised. "Just find me when you're done with your friend. I'll be close."

"Alright," she agreed slowly. "Midnight?" That gave her two hours with Simon. Hopefully, it was long enough to get some information and not long enough to get too uncomfortable around him, like she had last time.

"Midnight is fine."

They walked next to each other until they reached the mouth of the alley, and then they turned for a last, appraising glance at each other. Clary had won their physical fight, but Jace had trapped her strategically. Jace was relying on her to go to the Institute so that he could fulfill his orders, and she was relying on him to lead her to Luke so that she could follow hers. They were both acting under powers above them. They both knew they were trapped together, at least for a while.

Jace's eyes were still warning as he backed away from her on the sidewalk, mundanes splitting around him like a wave to avoid collision. He looked strange next to them, out of place and foreign with his golden beauty and animal strength. She wondered if she looked like that too – noticeably different, un-belonging.

She stared back at him for a moment, trying to imagine how she could draw him, how she could capture his intriguing beauty, his underlying strength, in a single picture. A biker's bell sounded behind her, and she jumped to the side just in time to avoid a painful impact. She could feel that Jace was still looking at her, but she didn't turn to meet his gaze again. She turned away and pushed a path through the thick nighttime crowd, hoping Simon was still waiting for her.

* * *

When she arrived at the vampire bar where she had first met Simon – Sangre, it was called – she was relieved to see through the window that he was still there, talking to a blonde girl in a red dress. It alleviated her guilt somewhat that at least he hadn't been waiting alone. Despite the heat, she dug her black jacket out of her bag and put it on over her t-shirt; it hid most of her Marks, and, though she couldn't hide her identity as a Shadowhunter indefinitely, she wasn't keen on the idea of flaunting it, either.

The door creaked when she walked in, and she saw hope in Simon's eyes when he turned to see who had entered, followed by relief when he saw it was her. It warmed her heart a bit, but she stifled the feeling. She had already gotten too close to Casper; she wasn't about to make the same mistake with this vampire, too.

"Hi, Simon," she greeted him, a bit breathless from the stress of all she had been through that night and the sudden heat under her jacket.

"Hi," he said with a small smile, gentle like always.

"I'm so sorry I'm late," she said. "I would explain, but," she sighed, "It's a long story."

"I have a feeling it's an interesting one. You have glitter in your hair," Simon said.

"What?"

"Right there," he pointed, and she ran her fingers through the section of hair. Sure enough, she saw silver flecks of glitter fall in front of her face.

"Magnus," she muttered in irritation. She wondered if the glitter had something to do with Jace not taking her seriously, but that was wishful thinking – though she would never admit it, he was right; she was a lot smaller than him.

"You missed a bit," Simon told her, leaning forward to run his fingers through a strand of her hair. His touch was surprisingly gentle, almost hesitant, like he was afraid of hurting her. Or just afraid of her.

"Thanks," she said, and his eyes flashed to hers before he pulled his hand away. Dark brown, the color of coffee. She had never had coffee; Valentine said they didn't need things like that, sources of false strength and momentary energy. They were strong enough without it.

For a few minutes, she and Simon made comfortable small talk. A preliminary, casual few questions told Clary that nothing unusual had happened in Simon's coven lately, or in Downworld at all. She felt a flare of disappointment at that but resolved herself to spending the night with Simon anyway. It wasn't like she could leave just because he didn't have important information, as impatient as she was.

A while into their conversation, Clary felt a gaze warm her skin and turned to see a vampire across the room, leering at her with his fangs extended, hungry. Disgust roiled in her stomach, and anger, and excitement. As Simon spoke next to her, she fantasized about killing the vampire across the room – imagined the way the pale skin of his throat would catch against her dagger before slicing open, the sound of his bones cracking as she ripped open his chest to tear out his dead heart. That's what she had done to Felix. And she had felt just like this when she had done it – overcome with worry for Jonathan, and Valentine's mission; restless energy swarming in her chest like a black storm; anger and excitement sending her heart racing at the proximity of danger, the pressing nearness of death as she called it forward with hatred and blood. It had been relieving, gratifying, and that's what it would feel like now, too, she knew. A bit of violence was just what she needed to dispel the restlessness in her heart.

But she couldn't do that. She couldn't kill him. She was trying to become friends with Simon, and he probably wouldn't take kindly to her murdering one of his coven in front of him. If not because it was a friend of his, then because it would probably get him in trouble since he had brought her there in the first place. Not to mention the vampire hadn't actually _done _anything. The fact that he was a vampire was enough for her, but thanks to the Accords it wouldn't be enough for the Clave.

So she focused on the warm, gentle tones of Simon's voice and began to actually listen to his words, using him as an anchor to draw her back from her reverie. When she looked into his eyes she found they augmented his calming effect; they were deep and peaceful, warm, gentle. Not like a vampire at all. And then, still looking at his eyes, a memory unfolded, unbidden, before her eyes.

_Brown eyes looming above hers, ignited with vicious, violent rage. Claws tearing through her skin, heavy, moving muscle pressing her into cool ground. A thump, a jerk, and then the eyes stilled, overtaken by a deep, encompassing nothingness. Memories disappeared, heart stilled, thoughts ceased. _She _had done that. Her family had done that. Guilt, grief, anger, agony, swelling in her chest, climaxing into a deafening roar of howls and thunder and pain and – _

"Clary?" Simon's touch on her shoulder jarred her out of her torment.

"What?" she asked, her voice hoarse and weak.

"I asked if you wanted to leave," Simon repeated patiently, and she didn't miss the nervous glance he threw at the vampire across the room. He had noticed too, then.

"Alright," she told him, and he waved goodbye to the blonde in the red dress before leading Clary out into the night.

"Where do you want to go?" he asked cheerfully, turning to her as traffic rushed past on the street beside them. Once again, Clary was struck by how much she missed Idris – no loud traffic there, no pollution and no leering eyes from across vampire bars.

"Where do you live?" she asked, out of a combination of impulsiveness and curiosity.

"Not far," he answered. "Why? Do you want to go to my house, or something?"

"Sure," Clary answered, still impulsive, figuring that if she couldn't be in her home she could at least spend some time in someone else's. Maybe it would alleviate her homesickness a bit, to be somewhere that wasn't so public and loud. She threw a glance behind her as they began walking, but she caught no flashes of gold. Jace was keeping to his word, then.

As she walked next to Simon, she thought back on the memory that had assailed her in the bar. Though she hadn't thought about it since it had happened, she could now recall with piecing clarity the agony she had been in, hearing the mournful howls tearing through the night air and knowing that she had caused that pain. And she knew what Valentine would say of her guilt – that it was unnecessary, wasted, because Downworlders weren't human and didn't deserve to be treated as such. But Clary knew pain, and she knew that what she had seen in those dead eyes and heard in heartbroken howls was something completely, undeniably human.

She had to do something, she knew. She had to do something to relieve herself of this guilt, or at least some of it, or else it would tear her apart. An idea forming in her mind, she stared at Simon; the gentle brown intensity of his eyes; the long, thin limbs; the shape of his face – actually, really _looked _at him. And then she gathered her preconceived hatred for vampires, the assumptions, the generalizations – bloodthirsty, uncontrollable, sadistic; they didn't match Simon well, anyway – and forcefully pushed them to the back of her mind where it was dark and shadowed and they wouldn't bother her. Without them, she saw only a boy when she looked at Simon. Kind, quiet, perceptive. Not a monster. Not a killer. She was more of a killer than he was, she realized.

Maybe this was a mistake, and she knew her father would be angry if he ever knew she had done such a thing. To purposefully forget caution and reason for the sake of anyone else, let alone _friendship_; it was foolish. Reckless. Unbelievably idiotic. That's what her father would say; she heard his scorn curling through her thoughts, his disappointment.

But she had to do this. She couldn't live like this anymore – condemning others as monsters while she acted like a monster herself. She could do this, for Simon. For the night, for him, she would forget what he was and see him as a person. She owed that much to him, for being so kind to her. She owed more than that to the lives she had taken, the souls she had torn apart from each other and damned to eternal oblivion. She didn't believe in an afterlife like Valentine did. She believed those wolves were gone forever, never to see each other again, lost in darkness, alone. And she had done that.

Yes, she owed them this much. Far more than this, but she could begin somewhere.

She looked at Simon again. Kind eyes, bony shoulders, a sharp jawline, a soft laugh. Nothing like her father or her brother. Maybe he wasn't so bad after all.

* * *

Leaving Sangre had been a good idea – there had been far too many hungry glances thrown in Clary's direction, and more than a few of his comrades that were less than pleased at a Shadowhunter's presence in their haunt – but suddenly the idea of taking her to his mundane, ordinary home in Brooklyn made Simon self-conscious and embarrassed.

When they had still been in the Shadow World, surrounded by vampires and darkness, she had been interesting, yes, and enthralling, but she had belonged there. Now, walking down the sidewalk of his block through the summer air, he was abruptly aware of how extraordinary she was. He tried to imagine her in his small, poster-covered bedroom and couldn't. She was too intense, too interesting, too strange. She belonged back in Sangre, or in Pandemonium or the bonfire by the river, surrounded by monsters and magic, where she was just another beautiful girl in the midst of the Shadow World (where almost everyone was beautiful anyway; Simon's average appearance was an anomaly).

Something was different about Clary, though. Something about her touched his motionless heart, made him think more clearly. It was an almost sickeningly sentimental thing to say, the kind of thing Simon would never say out loud, but he couldn't help but dwell on it when he was with her.

And as he walked next to her in the blue darkness, and wallowed in embarrassment and revulsion at how ridiculous he sounded around her, he realized he knew nearly nothing about her. He wondered if he should be a bit more wary around her, more careful. He often heard vampires complaining about the Nephilim – anytime there was an opportunity to do so, really – and they all had tales of Shadowhunters murdering Downworlders for fun, and as a way to acquire riches. "Spoils," they called them, like spoils of war, only it wasn't a war so much as genocide as far as Downworlders were concerned.

Younger vampires; less bitter, as the younger generations in any society were; had told Simon that those practices had been put to an end with the Accords. Given the disaster at the most recent signing of the Accords, however, Simon understood the mistrust for the Nephilim that seemed ingrained in Downworld.

But he couldn't imagine _Clary_ hurting anyone, let alone for fun. And he couldn't muster the slightest sense of mistrust or fear of her. She did make him uncomfortable, but it wasn't because he feared she would erupt into violent rage at the slightest glimpse of his fangs. It was because she was far more interesting than him, and cooler than him, and – he had a feeling – smarter than him, and she was beautiful. He couldn't manage to see her as just another Shadowhunter, one of the cruel, elitist, selfish warriors that he had heard so many awful, hateful things about.

He wondered what it was like for her. If she saw him as just another vampire, or if she had separated him from that generalization somehow. He hoped she had. He hoped she saw _him _when she looked at him, and not the bloodthirsty monster of the night, that façade that had settled itself, unwelcome, over his skin. If there were that many negative generalizations about the _Shadowhunters _– the children of an angel, the warriors of heaven – he couldn't imagine the awful things that could be assumed about a monster like him.

His wallowing was interrupted when they reached his block, his house visible from where they walked on the sidewalk. If his heart could beat, it would have jumped as once again he imagined Clary in his not-very-big, not-very-extravagant home. Though her clothes weren't ostentatious, they looked expensive, and even without that indicator it was safe to assume that most Shadowhunters came from affluent families.

As soon as they reached the stairs that led to his front door, Simon began watching Clary for signs of distaste or disgust, or a hint of the Nephilim arrogance he had heard so much about. But she looked only pensive and curious as he gave her a brief tour and she took in the wind chimes hanging on his front porch, the multitude of potted plants his mother kept in the house, the old furniture, the awful finger paintings and drawings on the fridge that his mother had refused to take down since he was 8. To Simon's disappointment, vampire coordination and motor skills had not improved his artistic talent.

Clary cracked a smile at the art on the fridge. "I didn't make those," he told her, affecting arrogance as he leaned against the fridge and examined them with her. "My sister did, poor thing. Can't tell her people from her buildings."

Clary laughed and then pointed to the bottom right corner of one drawing, where red crayon pronounced that the picture had, indeed, been drawn by Simon Lewis.

Simon couldn't help but laugh with her, when she laughed like that. "Alright, you caught me. I'm an awful artist."

"Is that… a chicken under a rock?" she asked, still smiling.

"It's Batman riding a griffin, thank you very much."

Clary gave him a strange look. "Who is this 'Batman' guy and why does everyone always talk about him?"

"You don't know who _Batman _is?" Simon demanded incredulously.

She shook her head. He had heard once that Shadowhunters – especially ones from Idris – were like aliens from another planet, and now he began to think it wasn't far from the truth.

"He's not real," Simon explained. "He's a fictional character. He's a superhero."

"What's his superpower?" Clary asked with a smirk. "Crushing chickens?"

"Very funny." Simon tore the picture from the fridge and crumpled it in his hands.

"No, no," Clary protested through laughter. "It isn't that bad. You must have been… what, 8?"

"I was 13," Simon said glumly, returning to his efforts of destroying the paper, but Clary grabbed his hands to stop him. He felt a phantom flutter in his chest, what would have been a lurch if he were still alive.

"If you really don't want it, I'll keep it."

"Really?" he asked, unable to fathom what she could possibly want with it.

"Yes, really," she said. She wasn't laughing anymore, but she was still smiling at him, and it made him smile too. She took the paper from him and uncrumpled it, and when she looked at it again he noticed the quirk of her eyebrow – a hint of arrogance, he thought.

"Are you an artist?" he guessed.

She didn't answer him but shrugged with a sly grin, her eyes alight with mischief as she leaned back against his stove. In that moment, illuminated by the pale light of the moon, her large eyes shockingly vivid and her hair strikingly crimson against her ivory skin, she looked beautiful, ethereal, not entirely real. Looking at her then, Simon wanted very badly to lean forward and kiss her, wrap his arms around the slenderness of her waist, run his fingers through her long, wavy hair.

But then he would be so close to her pale, slender neck; the rhythm of her pulse; the scent of her blood. Would he be able to control himself there, so close to her? So close to what he so desperately wanted with a feral, instinctual hunger that burned deep in his dead heart. She was beautiful, yes, and he was a monster. So he stayed where he was, close to her but not close enough, careful.

"What do your parents do?" Clary broke the silence, seemingly oblivious to his inner turmoil, placing his wrinkled drawing in a pocket of her backpack.

"My mother's a nurse," Simon answered, hoping his less than decent thoughts weren't evident in his face. "And my father died from a heart attack a few years ago."

Clary stopped fidgeting with her backpack and spun around to look at him, her hair fanning behind her. "I'm sorry," she said, and her voice was very sad, and her eyes on his were very deep, intense, appearing oddly dark in the blue light that flooded his kitchen.

"It's alright," Simon said, a bit uncomfortable with the fervor of her reaction. He hadn't pegged her for someone so emotionally sensitive. Another surprise.

"It isn't," she protested softly. "But I'm glad you're strong enough to say so."

She was still looking at him, her gaze still intense in a strange way that was equal parts bright and dark. To deflect some of the awkwardness, he asked, "What about your parents? What do they do?"

"My father is…well, he's a Shadowhunter. Aside from high-ranking positions in the Clave and the Silent Brothers, that's about all most of us are."

Simon heard the undertone of admiration thrumming in her voice. "Is he a… good… Shadowhunter?" He wasn't sure if that was the kind of question you could ask, if they defined themselves that way or if that was the source of her admiration, but he was reassured when Clary smiled and nodded.

"Yes, he's amazing." The reverence was even more evident now. "He trained me and my brother himself."

"I didn't know you had a brother."

"I do," she said simply, and the only elaboration she offered was, "He's amazing too." Despite her brief answers, a multitude of emotions and nuances swam in her dark green eyes. He saw love there, and longing, and pain too, he thought. And hearing the way she spoke about her family, the way her voice sounded when she was speaking about the people she loved, made Simon's heart ache. Some people had that gift, his mother said. The ability to make you feel what they felt.

"What about your mother?" he asked her.

"I don't have a mother." The glowing in her eyes had diminished, the swimming ceased.

"Everyone has a mother."

"Not me." It was the kind of thing that should have sounded sad, but Clary said it with a sly grin, her eyes glowing in a different way now – darker, mischievous, devious. Like she was playing a game that amused her very much. Like she was daring him to argue with her. And once again he was lost with her, the ground vanished from beneath his feet, his mind in chaos. She did that to him all the time. He would think that he had finally figured her out, that they had finally found common ground, and then she would change mood or behavior on the slightest whim and he would have to start over again.

He couldn't tell if she did it to amuse herself or if she was really like that – so capricious, so volatile and chaotic and sphinxlike.

"What's through that door?" she asked curiously, pointing.

"The stairs to the basement."

"Is that where you keep your coffin?"

"Very funny," he said again, and she grinned.

"What about that door?"

"That's the backyard." He walked over and opened it to show her; the birch tree, the wooden fence, the grass – too long, since he was usually the one who cut it, and it would seem odd to do it at night.

Clary squealed in childish glee and rushed past Simon, running down the stairs of his back porch and then collapsing on the grass of his lawn.

Even with vampire reflexes, he couldn't comprehend her behavior quickly enough. He stood there, lagging behind her, surprised. "Clary?" he asked uncertainly. "Are you… okay?"

"Grass!" she exclaimed in response, rolling over onto her back and then patting the ground next to her. "Lie down with me!"

"I was actually thinking… maybe… we would go back inside."

"Come _on_," she demanded, and he sighed before he lied next to her. She was small and warm at his side, and it made him even more aware of the coolness of his skin.

"I haven't seen grass in _ages_," she told him, "not since I left home."

"So, two weeks ago?" He laughed at her, amused and still reeling from her most recent mood swing.

"It's a long time!" she protested, "At least, long for me. There's grass everywhere in Idris. Forests and meadows and countryside."

"It sounds beautiful." He tried to imagine it and saw sprawling hills and deep forests, the trees greener and the water bluer than anything he had seen in New York – like those pictures in the nature magazines his mom always bought on a whim and then abandoned on end tables.

"It is," she whispered, and he could hear the wistfulness in her voice.

Clary ran her fingers through the grass, looking up at the night sky. "I wish I could see the stars here," she said.

Simon didn't answer her, but he turned to look at her. She looked back at him. He looked into her eyes, and they were the exact color of the magical forests he had just imagined in his mind. For the second time, he fought the urge to kiss her.

He managed it, somehow, turning away from her again and relaxing back into the grass. As beautiful as her eyes were, as beautiful as she was, she was very sad. Simon could see that. She almost seemed _broken_ to him. The way her posture slumped when she thought no one was looking at her, as though she was exhausted from pretending for so long. The way, he had noticed, even her most charming smile was a bit crooked, a bit twisted, as if some horrible thought or feeling was dragging it down at the corners.

He couldn't kiss her when he made himself see her that way. It felt like taking advantage of her.

"I have to go," Clary said abruptly, interrupting his thoughts.

"Really? Why?" Simon asked, Clary rising to her feet and him following suit.

"It's midnight," she said, as if that explained it. Leave it to her to have plans in the middle of the night.

"How do you know?" he wondered aloud.

She pointed up to the night sky. "The moon," she explained. "You can tell what time it is by its position in the sky."

Simon gave a low whistle. "That's a pretty useful skill, I guess. Impressive, too."

"My father taught me," she said, so quietly that if he were still human he wouldn't be able to hear her. Louder, she said, "Well…bye, Simon." Simon got the feeling she felt as awkward with goodbyes as he did.

"Later, Cinderella," he answered, instantly regretting it when she threw him a strange, confused look. He resolved to never reference anything mundane around her ever again as she hopped his gate and retreated down the alley, turning back to give him a small wave before she turned the corner and disappeared into darkness.

* * *

When Clary found him, Jace was leaning against a chain-link fence, looking even more out of place against the drab landscape than he had in the crowd earlier. "I may forgive you for the bruises eventually," he began by way of greeting, "but I'm not sure I'll ever forgive you for making me come to Brooklyn."

"What is it with you and Brooklyn?" she asked as he fell into step beside her. "I really don't see the problem with it."

"Bad memories," he said. When she looked at him questioningly, he elaborated, "New Year's Eve. Touchy Downworlders. Faery potion." Throwing her a conspiratory glance, he added, "But you know all about those, don't you?"

She swatted his arm angrily; she was still embarrassed about what had happened that night, and she always got aggressive when she was embarrassed. "Ouch!" he exclaimed dramatically. "Haven't you hurt me enough today?"

"Apparently not enough to make you _shut up_," she snapped before quickening her pace, pulling ahead of him. It had only been two minutes, and already her good mood from being with Simon had vanished without a trace.

"Where's the fire, Red?" Jace asked good-naturedly, catching up to her easily with his long legs.

"I just want to get this over with as quickly as possible."

"Haven't heard _that_ before," he quipped, and she knew without looking at him that he was smirking again.

She almost smacked him again but then she restrained herself, embarrassed at how easily he could incite her into violence. Normally only her brother could do that, and even he couldn't manage it this easily.

Clary didn't speak to Jace until they reached the subway, and as they settled into empty seats on the nearly empty car, he rested an arm over her shoulder. She wanted to push him off of her, but that was exactly the kind of reaction he wanted. Besides, he was warm, and she was cold.

"Thank the Angel we're finally out of there," Jace said, no doubt in reference to Brooklyn. She didn't answer him. She wasn't keen to forget that the only reason she was with him at all was because he was extorting her. She had no interest in going to the Institute, no interest in being with Jace and his arrogance and his uncanny ability to irritate her. She just wanted to find Luke, so that she could find Jocelyn, so that she could help her father and then go _home_.

"So," Jace said, "your plans were with a Jewish vampire? That wouldn't have been my first guess."

She had a feeling Jace didn't actually _know _that Simon was Jewish and only said it because Simon lived in Brooklyn, so, again, she didn't answer him.

When his comment went unanswered for a second time, he sighed good-naturedly. "What," he said, "Giving me the silent treatment?"

After another few minutes of silence, he sighed again, this time more frustrated. "You know, I don't want to be here anymore than you do."

"Then make it more bearable and _shut up_."

"_You _could make it more bearable and be less bitter."

"I'm not bitter," she protested, "I'm annoyed."

"Annoyed? Why? Someone jump you in an alley or something?" he asked mockingly.

"Bringing up our fight _again_, Jace?If anything I'd think _you _were bitter. You did lose, after all," she reminded him primly.

Jace scoffed. "I am _not _bitter. And I only lost because you ambushed me. Other than the surprise attack, you really aren't that impressive. You fight like a pixie."

Angry; again with that warm, piercing anger that she had felt earlier that day; she pulled away from him, pushing his arm off of her shoulders. "I do _not _fight like a pixie."

"It isn't your fault, Red," he told her with false sympathy. "You're so small; it's impressive that you can manage a punch at all."

"I'm not small!" she exclaimed, but even she knew she sounded ridiculous. Of course she was small. Especially compared to Jace, who, while not bulky or broad, was quite tall despite his slenderness.

Jace laughed – she would have too, after such a ridiculous objection. "Think of it as an advantage. There's a good chance you'll encounter a few opponents who will go easy on you. Like _me_, for example."

"You _wish _you were going easy on me," she snapped. "I know you weren't."

"Don't deny the truth, Pixie," he said with a smirk, and the nickname brought back so many awful memories that she almost flinched. "I was going easy, and you weren't. _That's _why you won."

"You think that was the hardest I can fight?" she demanded crossly. It _hadn't _been her best effort, not by a longshot.

"Yeah, I do," Jace snapped.

"I'm wearing a _skirt_," she pointed out. She immediately regretted it when her comment drew his gaze to her bare legs. It made her feel self-conscious against her will.

"Yeah, I guess," he admitted, and Clary thought his voice sounded rougher. He tore his gaze away from her skin and resettled into his former, casual position with a deep, tired sigh. She followed suit, sitting back once more on the hard, uncomfortable seat. Their argument seemingly at an end, she allowed herself to relax and felt the heat in her chest cool once more. Jace Wayland was quickly becoming the most infuriating person she had ever met.

"I know why you're really mad at me," Jace said after a few minutes of silence between them.

"Yeah?" she answered softly, curious despite herself.

"You're angry because I'm making you go to the Institute. Well, angry because of _how _I'm getting you there."

Clary was surprised that his perception of her behavior was actually correct. Until then, Jace hadn't come across as the perceptive type.

"Who wouldn't be angry?" she asked, her voice still quiet.

"I know I would be," he told her, and she heard a shade of guilt in his voice. "I am sorry about this, Clary."

It was the first time he had used her name, and it drew her gaze to his. Even as she gazed into his eyes, she saw the emotion there – remorse, interest, appraisal – harden and then disappear, and she imagined she knew exactly how he must have felt as he stifled it. She did that all the time. "But in my defense," he was saying, "I _did _ask nicely first. This whole extortion thing is a last resort."

She didn't answer him, preoccupied with the sight of his heart that she had seen in his eyes. With how frustrated he had made her, how angry she had been with him, it had been easy for her to forget that he was a person under all that charm and arrogance.

Jace seemed unnerved by her stare, and he shifted uncomfortably. "What?" he demanded irritably. "Do I have something on my face?"

She shook her head. "No, you don't."

"Well _you_ do," he told her. "You're covered in glitter."

"_Still_?" she muttered in exasperation, running a hand through her hair.

"You're missing it," Jace said, reaching forward to brush the side of her face, down to her neck. His touch was less hesitant than Simon's had been, but still gentle. He used his thumb to get the glitter off of her skin and she held still under his touch, strangely not-uncomfortable with his proximity.

"There," he said after a few strokes of his thumb, "Gone."

She pulled away from his hand and sat back again. "Thanks," she said. Her voice was still very soft, but she couldn't help it. She felt very tired. Not physically, but mentally, emotionally. Like the bursts of emotion Jace had provoked from her were more than her heart could handle. She certainly wasn't used to it – feeling like that, so intensely. She was used to stifling every stir and tremor in her heart, cramming every emotion together into a dark cloud that churned in her chest. She couldn't make sense of it, couldn't identify single emotions or feel them each in their individuality, and that was the way she liked it.

"So," Jace interrupted her musing, and she could tell from his voice that he had recovered his usual arrogant, languid demeanor. "Clarissa Nightshade. You wouldn't happen to have a cousin named Evelyn, would you? She's an awful kisser."

She didn't know if 'Clary' had a cousin named Evelyn, and she knew Jace was only trying to divert the focus of their conversation to less threatening topics. "I really don't care if Evelyn Nightshade is a good kisser or not," she told Jace coolly, absentmindedly playing with a strand of her hair.

"Well, _I _happen to be an excellent kisser," Jace informed her with a winning smile, "In case you were wondering."

She threw him a disgusted grimace. "I wasn't."

Jace laughed as he put his arm over her shoulder again, and she rolled her eyes. Jace opened his mouth to say something, presumably another sarcastic remark of some sort, but the train had stopped and a trio of loud, giggling girls – about their age – had entered through the doors, interrupting him. Clary took an immediate dislike towards them – they were far too loud for her taste. Almost in unison, the girls gazed at Jace in appraisal, and then at his arm around Clary's shoulders with distaste, and then at Clary herself with blatant, vicious scorn.

Clary had never understood why girls did that. Turning against each other the instant there was a boy around, as if a boy's attention was actually more important than being a decent person. Even Shadowhunter girls did it, from what she had seen in her brief visits to larger cities like Alicante.

But, despite her aversion to their behavior, Clary couldn't help but be uncomfortable with their nastiness towards her. Not because it genuinely bothered her, but because she didn't understand the source of it. Jace was touching her, yes, but it was just his arm around her shoulder. Certainly that wasn't concrete evidence that they were a couple, she thought. Physical affection had always been more casual than that to her.

Jace was watching the girls too, seemingly as uncomfortable as Clary was, but she didn't know if it was for the same reason.

"Should have used a glamour," Clary remarked, as both she and Jace watched the girls squeal over something on one of their cell-phones.

Jace grunted in agreement and they shared a brief smirk. "We'd still be stuck on this train though," he said. "And I'd hate to deny them…" he paused and gestured to himself dramatically, "_this_."

"A crime against humanity," Clary agreed sarcastically. Jace laughed.

"The next stop is ours, thank the Angel," Jace told her.

Clary wasn't nearly as relieved as he was. She wasn't looking forward to going to the Institute, not in the slightest. She understood completely why Valentine had forbidden her from going – it sounded almost idiotically risky. First there were the Lightwoods; former Circle members, they would no doubt have been very close to Valentine, and Clary knew she looked like him. Not exactly – that would be impossible, with her hair and her eyes – but once you got past her coloring, the similarities were fairly evident. And then there was other-Jonathan. The shadow boy, the boy Valentine had raised and then abandoned, for reasons that had never been explained to Clary or Jonathan. The Lightwoods had adopted him, which meant he lived at the Institute too. Clary had to admit she was curious, but she wasn't supposed to go anywhere near him.

Clary wondered how Jace fit into all of this. Had the Lightwoods adopted him too? Or was he only staying at the Institute for a while? Valentine hadn't mentioned any Waylands, and she couldn't recall him mentioning the name 'Jace' either.

Clary's wondering was overshadowed by worry, overcoming her like a dark cloud as Jace led her up out of the subway and then through the dark streets. She couldn't help but look over her shoulder every few minutes, wary for a glance of Pangborn or Blackwell. She knew Valentine had asked them to keep an eye on her. She prayed to the Angel that tonight wasn't one of the nights they had decided to do so.

"Why do you keep doing that?" Jace asked her after she glanced over her shoulder again. "What are you looking for?" He turned to examine the street behind them and, finding it empty, turned back to her expectantly, his brow furrowed.

"Nothing," she answered, forcing herself to keep her gaze forward despite the anxiousness gnawing at her stomach.

"You don't have to be nervous," said Jace.

"Alright." She didn't agree with him, but it wasn't like she could tell him why, and she wanted him to stop talking to her.

She saw spires in the distance, dark points illuminated against the silver moonlight and dark blue sky, and knew that it was the Institute without knowing how. They were only about a block away, and she held the ends of her sleeves in her fingers to keep her hands from fidgeting. Jace glanced at her every few moments, and she couldn't tell if his gaze was worried or curious. She didn't look to check.

And then they were there, standing in front of a tall wrought iron gate adorned with curling dead vines. The Institute lay beyond, a long cement path leading up to the front doors. The building itself was dark and ominous, looming above Clary and making her feel very small. The moonlight reflected off of stained glass windows in the gray stone, and Clary's artistic eye admired the gothic structure.

But her dread soon overcame her admiration. She felt walls closing in on her, her heart racing as she realized just how trapped she was. As the gates creaked open before them, she shrank instinctively closer to Jace's side, his warmth and his light a comfort in the darkness. Jace seemed to notice her apprehension, gazing down at her for a long moment as they approached the front doors, but he didn't comment.

Clary stepped into the Institute with a racing heart, her fingernails leaving painful indents in the skin of her palms. The air inside was cool and dry and dark. Her keen eyes, enhanced by a night vision rune, made out the shapes of pews on either side of them and paintings on the walls as Jace led her to another gate that he pulled open to reveal an elevator.

She briefly considered turning around and running away – she probably _could _find Luke by herself – but then she followed him into the enclosed space, her heart slowing as she accepted her fate. She wasn't a coward. She would do what she needed to do; she would find Luke and help her father. And then she would go home to her brother, and help him too.

She and Jace stood on opposite sides of the elevator as it escalated, facing each other. Clary looked down at the toes of her boots until something made her raise her eyes to see that Jace was staring at her. His eyes were like golden fire, burning and molten, and she thought again of the sun. His gaze was intent, pensive, searching, but beneath that was something darker that she couldn't decipher. She didn't look away from him, though the force of his gaze was becoming a heat that she could feel in her skin. She wanted him to stop looking at her, but she didn't break his gaze.

And as she watched him she saw his gaze steadily darken, deepen. He stepped forward; slowly but with purpose, looming over her; and she felt a flutter in her chest. But before he reached her the elevator lurched to a stop so suddenly that Clary stumbled, and he snapped his gaze away from hers even as he reached forward to steady her. His touch was hot against the small of her back, and she stepped away.

The elevator doors opened to reveal a dark foyer only barely illuminated by the moon shining through high windows. She thought of the foyer at home, at their manor in Idris, and the way the moonlight would always illume the portrait of the Angel. She felt homesickness again, a sudden throb in her heart, and then she pushed it away. She couldn't afford distractions like that now.

A glint in her peripheral vision drew her eyes to a gray cat curled up in a corner, its head raised at their arrival.

"Church," Jace called quietly, and the cat twitched an ear. "Where's Hodge?"

Church stretched slowly, arching his back and extending his claws before he rose to his feet, aimed an irritable hiss in their direction, and trotted into the dark hallway. Jace began to follow him, and Clary followed suit. The hallway was very long, the darkness broken periodically by the dim light of witchlights, and ended in a staircase on either side. Church led them up the right staircase, and Clary was unsurprised to find more dark hallways above.

Jace wouldn't meet her eyes but he walked very close to her, close enough that she felt the heat emanating from his skin. He almost seemed nervous too, though she couldn't imagine why.

After a multitude of steep staircases and dark hallways, Church stopped in front of two large double doors, twitching his tail. As soon as Jace and Clary reached him he darted off into the darkness, and Clary soon couldn't see his gray shape among the shadows.

"We're here," Jace announced needlessly. She didn't answer him.

He reached a slim, tanned hand forward and gripped the doorknob. He hesitated before he opened it. "Everything will be fine," he said, looking back at Clary where she wavered in the darkness. She couldn't bring herself to believe him; she had always been pessimistic. But something about the earnest warmth of his light eyes in the darkness slowed the racing of her heart, allowed her trembling fingers – still gripping her sleeves – to still. She nodded and he offered her a halfhearted smile before he pushed, opening the door to the darkness beyond.

* * *

**I can't remember what Simon's mom actually does, or if it's even mentioned at all. But 'nurse' sounded right to me, so there you go.**

**Was the chapter you were waiting for everything you'd hoped? You know how much I love reviews; you should all write one for me because tomorrow's my birthday and it's all I want from you.**


	11. Chapter 11

**Thank you for all of the reviews on the last chapter! No quote for this chapter. Couldn't f**king find one. **

* * *

Clary followed Jace into a room much larger than she had expected, and after a moment of surprised observation she realized it was a library. A high, arched ceiling; stained glass windows resting above the impossibly tall bookshelves. There was even a second floor, wrapped around the outer walls.

Jace turned back to make sure she was following him before he announced them. "Hodge," he called. "It's me."

"Ah, wonderful." A man she hadn't noticed before rose from behind a large mahogany desk, walking around it to face Jace and Clary with a gentle smile and glittering gray eyes. "You've arrived."

"This is Clarissa Nightshade," Jace said. "Clary, this is my tutor, Hodge Starkweather."

_Starkweather. _

_Oh, no, _Clary thought, along with a few more colorful phrases. She knew that name. She hadn't recognized 'Hodge' by itself, but the full name she recognized.

"A pleasure to meet you, Miss Nightshade. Thank you, Jace. I can take it from here." Hodge was all kind, scholarly innocence, but she knew enough to see the darkness behind his gray eyes.

"Wait, what?" Jace demanded, surprised.

"I'd like to speak with Miss Nightshade in private."

Jace turned to give her a startled glance, and she returned it with a horrified stare of her own. She felt desperate, suddenly. Desperate for Jace to stay, for him not to leave her alone with Hodge. _Don't leave me here_, she wanted to plead with him, but she knew she couldn't.

"But I brought her here," Jace protested indignantly to Hodge. Turning to her again, he said pleadingly, "You want me to stay, don't you?"

She opened her mouth to say that yes, she did want him to stay, but Hodge spoke before she could. "No, Jace." His voice was much sterner than it had been before, offering no room for argument. "This is between Miss Nightshade and me. You may go."

Jace looked between Clary and Hodge in disbelieving annoyance and then huffed exasperatedly, turning on his heel to leave. "Close the door behind you," Hodge called after him, and he was rewarded with the deafeningly loud bang of the heavy door being slammed shut.

"Moody," Hodge explained affectionately, as though Jace had done something adorable. "Just one thing before we begin, Miss Nightshade." Hodge brushed past her towards the doors of the library. He smelled of herbs and tea. He drew a stele from his jacket and carved a rune into the door – a soundproofing rune. Dread sent adrenaline surging through her veins in a sharp burst. "Knowing Jace," said Hodge with a kindly smile, "He'll be outside the entire time, hoping to eavesdrop. He's always been a troublemaker."

While his back was turned, she drew the faery dagger from her boot, reached under her shirt, and severed the identity rune.

Settling back into herself offered Seraphina a small sense of relief in the midst of her hopeless situation. Clary was good for interacting with others – Seraphina was too impatient, too flighty, too cruel. But Clary was also weaker, Seraphina had noticed. Clary was prone to emotional outbursts, she was unstable and sentimental and frail. A situation like this was the kind of thing Seraphina needed to handle.

"And, as I hear it," Hodge continued with a gentle smile and a belying glint in his gray eyes, "You're quite the troublemaker yourself."

He moved to stand in front of her, leaning on his desk. "It seems to be a trait among Valentine's children."

Her heart fell into her stomach and she swallowed thickly. He knew. He knew, he knew, he knew.

"Why are you here, Seraphina?" Hodge asked gravely, firmly.

"What?" She played at confusion even as dread slammed her heart into her stomach, her pulse racing.

All traces of the kindly tutor who had greeted her with Jace were gone, replaced with weariness and grim resolve. "I had my suspicions, when I heard of all that was happening in the city. The Lightwood children return here with news of Downworlders whispering about Valentine, and the Shadow World grows darker and darker with each passing day. And then Jace told me about _you._ Showed up out of the blue, with no friends or family. Superior fighting abilities. Associating with the worst sorts of Downworlders." As he spoke, she felt dread and fury in equal measures blooming in her chest.

"I admit that it was only a wild guess. But, now that you're here…" His gaze traveled from her head to her toes, cool and calculating. "Well, you look very much like your parents," he told her grimly, as if he were delivering awful news. _Well, the results are in_, she imagined him saying. _You look just like your awful parents. Your insides are probably awful too._

"Another might not notice the resemblance – you don't resemble either one in predominance. But I was very familiar with them, you know. And I see them in you. Your mother's coloring and your father's beauty. Cruel though it is…" Hodge mused thoughtfully, distantly, as though he wasn't really speaking to her, "It is beauty."

When she didn't answer him, he commented condescendingly, "You're father must be very confident in your abilities, to send you here by yourself. Wouldn't you agree?"

"I can handle myself," she told him coolly. Hodge was quite obviously bitter, but so far she hadn't detected any sign that he was keen to betray her father. She hoped she was right.

"He always was proud of you. And your brother. Though I must say, he treats you more like weapons than children," Hodge remarked, his eyes glinting. Seraphina felt a flash of annoyance. Her instincts told her Hodge wasn't a threat, but he was infuriatingly arrogant and presumptuous. Did he really think he could manipulate her that easily?

"Better a weapon than a servant," she said lowly. Her reviled Morgenstern arrogance, inherited from her father, had extended its claws and reared its ugly head. Hodge glared at her for a moment, angry in that quiet way that meant he knew he was helpless. She couldn't help but smile.

"It's funny," said Hodge, "When you smile like that, you look very much like Jace."

Seraphina hummed indifferently; she had entirely forgotten about Jace, and she had no interest in speaking about him now. But then Hodge continued, "It makes sense, I suppose. Even after so long away from it, Valentine's influence has its place in him."

She froze, her mind racing to piece together what she had quite obviously missed. Valentine's influence? When would Jace have been around her father?

She came to only one possible explanation.

Testing the waters with anxiety curdling her stomach, she said, "Yes, Jonathan," as though she had only just remembered him. "How has he been since he arrived?"

Hodge looked at her through hooded eyes, grave. "Alright. Well-trained, of course, though not particularly obedient. But we call him Jace –," and there, her guess was confirmed, "– as you know, surely."

So Jace was really Jonathan. Suddenly, everything that had happened that night was skewed, given a different light, now that she knew who he really was. Had that been her father's spin kick in the alley? Had that been her father in his gaze on the subway? It wasn't long before she didn't know what was Jace and what was her imagination, adding more to their exchanges than there had really been. Suddenly, she felt a pressing urge to be near him again, to see him as he truly was.

But there was Hodge to deal with.

"Tell me why you're here," he insisted once more. His voice had lost its aimless anger, his futile attempt at intimidation forgotten, but his presumptuousness was still grating on her nerves.

"Ask my father, if you're so concerned."

"You're father broke off correspondence with me last year. I've been in the dark ever since."

She hummed nonchalantly. "Why would he do that?" she asked politely.

"I haven't the slightest idea," said Hodge. "I was hoping you would." And then the anger alighted in his eyes, bursting past some barrier of calm that had contained it, turning his eyes a darker shade of grey, and she knew then that he was more dangerous than she had thought. Because the fuel of his anger was desperation, and her father said that desperation in weak men was more dangerous than fury.

"We had an agreement," said Hodge, "An agreement that I would help him, and in return he would free me of the curse that traps me here. Needless to say, he terminated that agreement when he began refusing my letters."

"Did you displease him?"

"_No_!" Hodge slammed his fist down onto his desk when he shouted the word, and a small, glass angel figurine was shattered under his blow. When he raised his hand from the ruins, it was coated in blood. "I have done _nothing_ wrong! I have been loyal since the very beginning. And how am I repaid? I am banished here, damned to waste away in this hell."

The crimson blood on his hand mirrored a flame in his eyes, and she knew she had to be extremely careful with him. "That was the Clave, Hodge. The Clave exiled you. Not my father."

Hodge looked taken aback for a moment, but then he recovered. "True as that may be, he did have the power to free me. And he didn't."

"You think the Clave wouldn't find you, Hodge? That the Lightwoods wouldn't report your escape for a pat on the head from their new masters?"

Hodge had faltered, his brow furrowing as his anger turned against itself. Sensing the weakness, she pressed onward, hardening her voice. "My father is planning a revolution, Hodge. Not just of the Clave, but of our entire world. I'm certain he appreciates your loyalty. He is not arrogant enough to assume he could have made it here without help." That part wasn't particularly true, but it sounded good.

"Rewarding those, like you, who have displayed their loyalty since the beginning, will be my father's first priority as soon as he is able to do so. But right now," she forced sympathy into her voice, "We must all be patient. My father did not abandon you out of spite, Hodge, or lack of appreciation. He is doing his best, as we all are, to press forward with this task. If he faltered in fulfilling his promise to you, it was only due to a more pressing issue elsewhere. The mundane world is falling apart; even from here, in the Institute, you must be able to see that. And our world is falling apart with it."

She had won Hodge over, she could see that. His brief rebellion had flickered and extinguished, spent, suffocating itself with the very desperation and anguish that had fueled it. She stepped over to him and placed a hand on his hunched shoulder in saccharine compassion. "My father cannot afford to think of individuals. Just as we cannot afford to think of ourselves. Not right now. I know it is difficult, perhaps even unfair. But, for our bravery and our sacrifice, we are part of something much more important than ourselves. We must all be selfless and diligent in our plight, until we have fulfilled the destiny that God has placed before us."

Hodge turned to her, his eyes a stormy gray in his contemplation as he considered her. "You truly are," he said resignedly, "Your father's daughter." She would have considered the words a compliment were it not for the chilling darkness in his voice, like he was condemning her for a terrible crime.

"You honor me, Hodge." The darkness in her tone rivaled his, and they held each other's eyes for a heavy moment. Hodge broke first, averting his gaze, but it wasn't the end. They weren't finished with each other yet.

"What is it you were going to do for him?" she asked. Afraid of the power she could give him with her curiosity, she added, "Maybe I know why the plans fell through."

Hodge sighed. "He wanted – well, needed, I suppose – the Mortal Cup."

"How were you supposed to get it?" she asked, confused. Was he going to nicely ask Jocelyn to bring it to the Institute? Her father often said that he knew Jocelyn wanted to be a part of the cause again, in her heart of hearts, but it was her anger over Jonathan and Seraphina that prevented it. Even if that was true, Seraphina couldn't imagine Jocelyn being quite _that _compliant.

"I wasn't going to get it myself. Pangborn and Blackwell were, and I was going to report everything to Valentine."

"You were going to make sure they did their jobs, you mean?"

"Yes, that's correct."

It seemed Valentine had replaced Pangborn and Blackwell with her, and in turn they had taken over Hodge's responsibility of surveillance.

"That's why you're here, isn't it," said Hodge. "Now you're getting the Mortal Cup instead."

Seraphina thought about admitting it, but then she held herself back. Her father had cut Hodge out of the plan for a reason. "No," she said, "That isn't why I'm here."

"Why, then?" A fire had returned in Hodge's eyes. Excitement, curiosity. _Careful_, she told herself.

"I need to know why you're here, Seraphina," Hodge pressed forward urgently. "I want to know what Valentine is planning, and I want to know why I wasn't included in these plans." Hodge seemed very weak to her, frail and soft and weak-willed; she could feel the feebleness of his psyche faltering against the harshness of hers. But there was something in his eyes as he said those words, something unwavering and determined. He couldn't beat her, she knew, and he wouldn't stand a chance against her father. But her family – her and Jonathan and their father – they were rebels. They were whispers, shadows, lurking in the darkness and the underground. Hodge had an advantage they didn't; he was still a member of the Clave.

She couldn't tell him the truth, but she couldn't discount him completely either. _Lying it is, then_, she decided.

She flitted through her options, never breaking Hodge's gaze. And then she reached a solution. "For Jonathan," she said, her voice firm. "I'm here for Jonathan."

"Jace," Hodge said hoarsely. She didn't know if he was correcting her or just saying the name.

For a moment, she wondered if Hodge would believe her. But after a moment of gazing at her he sighed, removing his glasses and shutting his eyes as he rubbed his forehead wearily. "I wondered… I thought Valentine might come for him, one day." He sounded resigned, she thought, but also sad.

"Why?" Hodge asked, opening his eyes to meet her gaze. "Why now?"

"My father's plans are beginning to progress," she told him. "The time has come for Jace to join us."

"When Jace arrived at the Institute, and later, when Valentine sent a letter explaining the situation… I'd imagined he had decided that you and your brother would be enough for him, for his plans," said Hodge.

"Perhaps he thought that, once," she said thoughtfully. "But the advantages of Jace's training cannot be wasted. My father put a large amount of effort into his creation." When she said it, she really did mean "creation" – Jace's angel blood, infused into his being before he was born. Hodge wouldn't understand that, though.

"Well… again, I can't say I didn't see this coming." Hodge looked very tired, weary beyond his years.

"But you find it displeasing?" she demanded, alert to the possibility that he would rebel against her father's plans – though the plans themselves were false, Hodge's disloyalty wouldn't be.

"No, no," Hodge protested quickly, desperately. "Not at all. It's just that… Jace has a family here. A parabatai."

"He has a family with us, too," said Seraphina softly.

"Yes, yes, of course," Hodge said, submissive once more. "I hope you don't… I would like you to know, Miss Morgenstern, with certainty, that I would never dream of going against your father."

"Certainly not." She smiled reassuringly but moved away from him, eager to put the conversation to an end.

"I imagine you'll need to spend quite a bit of time with Jace, then," said Hodge, halting her retreat.

_Damn_. She hadn't thought about that. "Yes," she agreed smoothly. "My father doesn't want to rush into anything. I need some time to decide whether Jace is…ready."

"If he's still good enough for Valentine, you mean," corrected Hodge bitterly.

"You could put it that way," she said sharply. "It's late. I think this conversation has been long enough, don't you?"

"Indeed." Hodge nodded and looked away from her, placing his glasses once more on the crooked bridge of his nose. "I don't know where you're staying, but if it's very far away, feel free to spend the night here, Miss Morgenstern. Jace can show you a room."

"Yes, I think I'll stay." Her apartment _was _very far, and she didn't want to waste any time in making Jace show her where Luke had gone. If she stayed at the Institute, they could begin right away in the morning.

"Don't worry Hodge," she said as she walked over to the door. "Now that I'm here, my father will be made fully aware of the extent of your loyalty and compliance. You'll get all the attention you deserve."

She made no effort to disguise the threat in her words, and Hodge, weak and simple though he was, understood. "I have no doubt," he said solemnly.

She undid the soundproofing rune on the doorway and left the library, sparing a stern glance for Hodge before she entered the dark hallway.

"Whoa, Clary." Jace had been waiting outside, and he sprang away from the wall as she tore past him. "What happened?" he asked, catching up to her.

She only shook her head. She hadn't realized it before, but now she realized just how _angry _she was. Angry that she was trapped in so many different ways, angry that she was ruining everything, angry that her father hadn't kept her more informed. She saw a smaller, dark corridor to her left and darted into it, hoping he wouldn't follow her. But he did, insistent, and after a few moments he lost his patience. "Clary," he said, fraught, and he grabbed her forearm, easily enclosing it in his large hand. He stepped forward, forcing her back against the wall until she was trapped. "Tell me what happened."

"Nothing happened," Seraphina said.

"You don't have to lie to me," Jace said earnestly. "You can tell me. I'm sorry, I –," he ran a hand through his hair, "I didn't think what Hodge wanted to speak with you about would be anything bad. If I had known, I –,"

"It wasn't," she interrupted. "It wasn't that bad. I just… I'm tired, and he asked a lot of questions, and I…"

Jace looked relieved. "Well, you should stay here. It's too late to go all the way back to your apartment."

She nodded. "I was planning on staying here."

"Then why were you walking towards the door?" She shrugged. "You didn't know where you were going, did you?" Jace said with a smirk.

"Would you just show me a room?" she snapped, but he only laughed.

"Sure thing, Pixie."

"Ugh," she groaned. "Could you _not_, with the nickname."

"Sure thing, Red."

She narrowed her eyes in irritation but he didn't see her, walking ahead of her in the dark hallway. His hair caught the dim light, glinting and shining gold in the blackness, and she was reminded of a different night, a different darkness, walking behind her brother as he led her through a dark forest and watching the moonrise and the stars shine in his hair.

She shook her head, attempting to clear her thoughts and, for the first time, eager to replace the identity rune so that she wouldn't have to think about things like that anymore.

Jace turned to her and she met his gaze curiously, but then he looked away again. When he looked at her again she was part amused and part exasperated, and finally he said, "Clary –"

"Jace?" a low voice questioned, interrupting him, and Jace turned around in surprise to a tall, slender boy leaning in a doorway.

"Alec." Jace sounded surprised.

"What are you doing?" The boy stepped into the hallway, and in the dim lighting Seraphina could make out pale skin against ink black hair, and the low shine of blue eyes. "Did you just get back?"

"A few minutes ago. This is Clary," Jace said, even though Alec hadn't asked and hadn't even spared her a glance. "Clarissa Nightshade."

"Alec Lightwood," said Alec shortly, looking at her for the first time. "Are you staying here?"

"Only for the night," she answered, at the same time Jace said, "Yes."

Alec glanced between them, eyebrows raised. "Well," he said after a pause, "Goodnight, then."

"Night," said Jace, watching Alec's retreating form until he disappeared into the room he had come out of.

"Is he your _parabatai_?" she asked him.

He snapped his gaze to hers. "Yes. How did you know I had one?" He touched his chest in what appeared to be an unconscious gesture, and she guessed that was where his _parabatai _rune was.

"Hodge mentioned it."

He gave her a strange look as he began leading her down the hallway again. "You talked about me in there?"

_Damn. _"No," she said shortly, lacking the patience to think of anything more elaborate.

"I'm surprised he was awake," Jace changed the subject, but he still looked suspicious.

"Well, you can't go around slamming doors like that and not expect to wake a few people."

"Lost my temper," Jace said with a smirk and a mischievous glint in his golden eyes. She thought of her own temper and smiled. Maybe getting along with him wouldn't be hard.

He stopped suddenly and reached across her to open a door on her left, his arm brushing against hers. "This room should be fine," he said. He reached inside the doorway to flip on the light, revealing a clean, white room, empty but for a small bed, a dresser, and another door in the far corner.

"Thanks," she said, stepping around him to walk inside.

"Do you need anything?"

"No, thank you."

Jace hovered in the doorway for a moment, giving her room a quick scan. "I'm around the corner, if you need anything. And Isabelle's down the hall."

She didn't know who Isabelle was, but she assumed it was the black-haired girl that she vaguely remembered from Pandemonium. "Alright."

"Goodnight, Clary."

"Goodnight, Jace."

They stood across from each other for a moment longer, and Clary didn't know if she was staring at him or if he was staring at her, but eventually he turned and left, and she was alone.

She closed the door and carved a soundproofing rune into the doorframe. A glance at a clock on the bedside table told her it was four in the morning.

She knew what she had to do, but she dreaded it anyway as she opened the door in the far corner of her room – it was a bathroom, as she had guessed – and drew her stele. Carving the necessary runes into the wooden frame around the mirror took her several minutes; it was an elaborate process, one she didn't have much practice with.

She knew it had worked when her reflection was replaced with a deep, swirling darkness.

And then, "Who is it?" her father's voice demanded shortly from the darkness.

"It's me," she said.

"Seraphina?" The darkness vanished to reveal her father's stern, worried face, as though a curtain had been pulled away from the glass. The sight of his face sent relief and fear in equal measures rushing through her. "I thought we agreed to use written correspondence. Is something wrong?"

"You could say that," she answered grimly.

"Tell me." His voice was cool, firm, all business, but beneath it was a low undercurrent of concern.

"I'm at the Institute –"

"_Seraphina._" Her name was a frustrated groan. "We discussed this before you left."

"I _know_," she said. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to end up here, but one thing led to another and I… I'm sorry."

He sighed, closing his eyes for a moment. "And how, exactly, did this happen?"

"Well…" She couldn't tell him the truth – that she had lost Jocelyn, that Jocelyn was in all likelihood shacking up with her father's werewolf ex-parabatai, that she was being blackmailed because she was an idiot. The very thought of it was abhorrent. But she couldn't lie to him completely either. That was abhorrent too. "I met… It was an accident, but I met Jonathan."

"Jonathan?" Her father straightened, his eyes dark eyes sharpening into focused brightness. "Really?"

"Yes, really. And he was adamant about bringing me to the Institute. I could have killed him to avoid coming here, but… I didn't think you would want me to?" The end of her sentence was tentative, a guess, hopeful.

When her father answered her, his voice was carefully composed. "You're right. I wouldn't have wanted that."

"Yes, well… Here I am."

"Why was he pressing you to go to the Institute? He doesn't know who you are, does he?"

"No… but Hodge does."

Anger flashed across her father's face like the dark, rolling clouds of a storm, and she cringed away from him instinctually, feeling the phantom pain that always followed his anger even though he couldn't actually touch her.

"Hodge Starkweather." Her father spat the name like it was a curse. "He didn't hurt you, did he?"

She was surprised at the protective anger in his voice. "No, nothing like that."

"Why is there blood on you, then?" he demanded.

She followed his gaze to her shoulder and saw that it was, indeed, covered in dried blood, and she remembered Jace pushing her into the brick wall of an alley. "That's… unrelated," she said.

Her father didn't look satisfied, but he didn't press it further. "Did he threaten to reveal you to the Lightwoods? Or the Clave?"

"Not in so many words," she attempted to appease her father's worry. "But he is upset with you. Not enough to breed disloyalty, in my opinion, but… enough to be careful."

"Careful," her father scoffed. "Of him? He's a fool."

"I know. But like you said, he could report me to the Clave."

"Don't worry," her father said. "He won't. I can handle Hodge." She knew he could; that's why she had decided to tell him. There were some things she couldn't do by herself.

"Did he guess why you're there?" her father asked worriedly. "To retrieve the Mortal Cup?"

"He did." At the darkness looming in her father's eyes, she rushed forward, "But I convinced him I was here for something else."

Her father paused, surprised. "Did you, now?"

"Yes. I told him… well, I told him that we wanted Jonathan."

Her father's eyebrows rose, but he remained as impassive as ever. "Jonathan. Interesting."

She immediately grew nervous, and hated how small her father always made her feel. "I didn't know what else to do. I had to tell him something. I don't think it will ruin anything, I promise. I don't have to tell Jonathan anything. I just need to spend enough time with him that Hodge thinks I'm doing what I said I was." When her father said nothing, her nervousness escalated even further. "I'm sorry, I – "

"No," he interrupted. "Don't apologize. I am not displeased."

"Really?"

"Really. Perhaps it isn't a terrible idea. I'd be lying if I said I've never considered it."

"Considered… coming to take Jonathan from the Lightwoods?"

"More like from the Clave," her father corrected drily. "But yes."

Seraphina didn't know what to say. She couldn't imagine it – someone else becoming a part of their family. And she still hadn't managed to connect the shadow of a boy she had imagined as a child to the very real boy she had just met – Jonathan and Jace. They seemed like two completely different people in her mind. But wasn't there her father's arrogance, in the way he moved, in the way he fought? Wasn't there a hint of her mischievousness in his smile?

Her father hadn't spoken yet either, and he appeared deep in thought. "They call him Jace, now," she told him softly.

"Jace," her father repeated the name, his voice just as soft as hers. "Why?"

"I don't know." Rare were the times when her father expressed emotions other than anger and mild, distant pleasure, but for a moment she thought he looked sad.

"Well," he said brusquely, the moment between them definitively over. "I want you to do as you said you would. Spend time with Jona – Jace, and determine whether or not he would be beneficial to our cause. I know it will be difficult for you, but… Try to trust him. He may have lived among the Clave long enough to seem like one of them now, but I did raise him. I have faith that he is still what I created him to be."

"Yes, father." There was no room for argument or suggestion when he spoke like that.

"Since we're speaking anyway, Seraphina," her father said, "I had a question about the letter you sent today."

"Yes?" she asked, disguising her nervousness with innocent curiosity. Recently, she had taken to pretending that she was following Jocelyn for a while before making contact with her. She included only vague descriptions abut mundane activities, things she was almost certain her father would believe, but what if she had made a mistake? What if he had figured out that she hadn't found her mother at all?

He would make her go home, she knew. But since when had the thought of that been a bad thing? Didn't she _want _to go home?

She was spared her indecisive musing when her father began, "That group of Downworlders you mentioned, the one you found through that warlock." Relief flooded through her chest.

"Yes?"

"What races are involved?" he asked.

"All of them," she answered.

"Is that so," he said thoughtfully. "And they manage to… function? That is, they never turn against each other?"

"They seem to function well enough. There are always a few scuffles in the times I've been present, but it doesn't seem to cause any real harm to the group as a whole."

Her father looked concerned. "That's… dangerous." She remained politely, passively quiet as he seemed to ponder the situation.

After a moment of silence between them, he sighed tiredly and said, "Is there anything else you need?"

"Could I…" she trailed off and bit her lip, wondering if asking would make him angry. But then she remembered that he wasn't actually in front of her, and the shadowy pain that she always felt when punishment was a possibility vanished, and with it her sense of caution.

"Yes?" her father prompted, surprisingly patient.

"Could I see Jonathan?" When he rolled her eyes, she rushed forward, "Just for a few minutes, I promise."

"No, Seraphina." The words sounded like a sigh. "I know you miss each other. But I can't have you this dependent on each other now that our mission is moving forward so quickly. You'll see each other again as soon as you're finished in New York."

She pouted, but she knew that she wasn't going to get what she wanted this time. And then, in the corner of the mirror, she saw a flash of white-blonde hair, and then Jonathan's face was peering in through the crack of the partially open door.

Her delight must have been apparent in her face, because her father furrowed his brow in confusion and then turned around. And then he groaned. "Damn it."

"Jonathan!" Seraphina squealed.

"Pangborn!" her father was shouting.

Jonathan smiled at her and said her name, softly, but then a dark shape collided with him and he was pushed out of the frame of the mirror. Without thinking, she leaned forward to see him and slammed her head into the mirror. "Ow!" she yelped, as the sounds of a fight between Pangborn and her brother broke out. She heard a loud crash, followed by an angry shout.

"THIS," her father shouted exasperatedly through the commotion, "IS WHY I WANTED TO USE THE POST OFFICE."

Still rubbing her forehead, she allowed a strangled laugh to slip through her lips. When she had been younger, she and her brother had spent hours trying to get their father this angry, a game that had often been the only thing to entertain them in their large manor in the countryside, far from any cities or children their age.

Her father threw her a strict look at the sound of her laughter, but soon his resolve broke and he couldn't help a small, crooked smile. Moments like this were few and far between, and had steadily grown scarcer since she was younger. Moments when they were a family instead of a holy crusade. Moments when Valentine was a father instead of a leader, when Jonathan and Seraphina were teenagers who whined and fought and annoyed their father instead of warriors who fought and killed with cruel, bestowed vengeance for their master.

"I miss you, Father," she whispered, her smile slipping from her lips.

His smile vanished too. He was surprisingly earnest when he said, "I miss you too, Seraphina."

"Will you tell Jonathan I miss him?"

Her father snorted. "I think he knows." When she held his gaze, he relented, "Alright. I'll tell him."

"Please don't let Pangborn touch him again," she said solemnly.

"If he behaves himself, it won't be necessary." His voice had harshened. More softly, he said, "You're doing well, Seraphina You'll be home soon."

The warmth in his voice ignited a warmth in her heart, and she managed a smile before blackness overtook the mirror once more, and then it was her own reflection staring back at her. She realized how pale she looked, how tired, her smile crooked and distorted. She turned away from her reflection quickly, attempting to forget how unhappy she was with what she had seen there.

She was already lying in bed when she realized she had never replaced the identity rune, and she decided to remain Seraphina for the night. For once, being herself didn't seem like such an awful thing. Her father was proud of her, and she had managed to see her brother even though it was only for a second. And Seraphina, with her artistic temperament and her melancholy, was very content lying there, with the darkness of night paling into cool light.

The sound of a piano suddenly broke the heavy silence of the Institute. It was distant, but she heard it. The melody was soft and sad and mourning. She didn't recognize the song, but the recognized the pain of it, felt it slide between her pulse and send a delicious aching through her heart. She closed her eyes, fearing she might cry if she didn't, and thought, as she listened to the heartbroken melody and listened to the birds beginning to stir and sing outside her window and the rustle of the wind through the leaves of trees, that she had never been in a moment more beautiful than this one.

* * *

Jonathan slammed Pangborn into the wall, hard enough to make his eyes roll back into his head, and then he was gone, flying through the halls of the manor until he reached his sister's bedroom. He collapsed on the floor near her bed, leaning against it as his breathing slowed and his pulse returned to normal.

He had seen her. It had been brief, but he had seen her. The memory of her sweet voice, asking for him, saying his name, sent his head spinning with pleasure. The sight of her face, even more beautiful than he had remembered, sent his heart racing with hunger.

But as much as he loved his sister, as much as he had missed her, he felt utterly, undeniably frustrated with her. What was she _doing_ in New York? What was taking her so long? A part of him knew, rationally, that it was their father who wanted them separated, that it wasn't really her fault. But in the brief glimpses he still caught of her when whatever block she had created was broken, he knew she was getting into trouble. He could feel it, every time her pulse raced with dread or excitement, every time that fire ignited in her chest, that fire that had always driven her to recklessness and rebellion – he felt all of those things, and he could only imagine what she was doing.

He rubbed his forehead, closing his eyes and groaning in frustration. His sister had always been such a flighty little creature, so fickle and reckless. Most often he tolerated it. Oftentimes he even found it endearing. But then there were situations like this, where she was so hard to reach and difficult to understand that he wanted to wrap his fingers around her throat and squeeze tighter than he normally did.

His despair over his sister had transformed into something much more sinister, as his emotions usually did after too long in the dark. His sister used to be there to slow the process, but she wasn't anymore, and so his worry and sadness had festered into agony and longing and possession and… anger. He hated being angry at his sister, but now she deserved it. She had abandoned him.

"Jonathan," he heard a deep voice resound from the doorway, and turned to see that his father had entered the room without him noticing. Angel, he was really falling apart. "There's been a change of plans."

Jonathan sat up, alert. Was he going to join his sister? Was she coming home? "What is it?" he asked, glad that his voice didn't reveal his eagerness.

"Due to an... unusual sequence of events," his father said grimly, "Our Seraphina has stumbled onto a bit of a surprise."

_Our_, Jonathan repeated bitterly to himself. _Mine_. But he didn't say it out loud.

"What sort of surprise," demanded Jonathan, a dark swell rising in his chest, prepared to destroy and kill and burn for his sister.

"She found your brother in New York."

"Our… what?"

"Your brother, Jonathan," his father explained, adopting the tone that, since they had been small children, had always eliminated the possibility of argument or rebellion. And then Jonathan realized – when his father had said his name, he hadn't been addressing him but referring to someone else.

"Jonathan," he echoed with a vicious snarl, suddenly placing a golden shadow with the name they shared.

"And it has become a very real possibility," continued his father, "That Jonathan might join us."

"What?" Fury split through his chest like a whip. A stranger, in his family. A stranger, with his sister.

"He's a member of this family," his father reproached, stern and resolved.

"No he isn't," Jonathan protested indignantly. "He isn't even related to us. We've never even met him."

"Well, your sister has. And this was her idea in the first place."

"That can't be true." His sister would never betray him like that. When had he ever not been enough for her? When had he ever left something to be desired?

"It is," asserted his father, cold and detached.

"Why would she do that?" he asked hopelessly. Why would she do that to him?

"As I said, the sequence of events has been… unusual." His father sounded worried, and Jonathan wished he knew what was going on. It felt awful to be kept so in the dark, especially where Seraphina was concerned. Growing up, he had always gotten anxious when he didn't exactly where she was, what she was doing, what she was thinking. After living in such torture for weeks now, he was quite literally losing his mind.

"Don't worry about your sister," his father said, a small trace of affection creeping into his tone. "She'll be alright. She's handling things excellently."

"Of course she is." A wry smile tugged at his lips against his will. He was angry at his sister, and he didn't want to be happy about her, but he couldn't help but be proud of her. He wondered how many demons she had killed since she had left. And how many people.

"She says they call him Jace, now."

"Who, Jonathan?" With the small seed of news about his sister, he had completely forgotten about the other boy for a few blissful moments.

"Yes." There was emotion in his father's voice, but Jonathan couldn't decipher it. It sounded something like sadness, but Jonathan couldn't imagine a reason for that. His sister was better at that, at understanding people. Jonathan was terrible at it.

Jonathan lay back once more, even more angry and miserable than he had been before. He barely remembered 'Jace.' He remembered trying to kill him. And now, as he had been doing since his father had brought it up, he recalled a golden shadow. He wondered if it was because that was what the boy looked like or if it was a bitter remembrance of the way his father used to speak about him – in golden tones, light eyes, a bright smile. His father had never spoken about him that way. If other-Jonathan was a golden shadow, he was a black one. A scar. A forsaken memento of an experiment gone wrong.

"How exactly is she going to get him here, then?" Jonathan asked.

"Slowly, I presume. Carefully. She'll have to get to know him first, decide if he can be trusted."

"Since when has Seraphina done anything _slowly_ or _carefully_?"

His father allowed a wry grin at that, and Jonathan thought that might be the first time he had ever made his father smile. Then again, it wasn't really him that had done it. It had been Seraphina. Even as a memory, even far away, she was the favorite. That didn't make Jonathan jealous like it used to; she deserved that. She was the most beautiful thing he had ever known.

His father interrupted his thoughts, and Jonathan felt misery overtake him once more. "Though this wasn't expected, I think this will be good for us. For our family. I know you've always resented Jace –," his father stumbled slightly over the new name "– but I don't see why you wouldn't like him. He has the same training as you, the same upbringing. And he has the same blood as your sister."

"No, he doesn't," Jonathan protested harshly. "_I_ have the same blood as my sister. That's why she's my sister."

"You know that isn't what I meant."

Jonathan wanted to argue more, but he had collapsed into his sullenness, his energy spent. Just when he thought he couldn't be any more miserable without his sister, she found someone else. 'Jace' would never compare to him, he knew that. His sister had promised him that. But that didn't mean Jonathan was content with his situation – alone, helpless, possessing no control at all over his sister for the first time in her entire life.

But he had prepared for this, hadn't he? The torments, the manipulations, all of the awful things he had done to his sister; a part of him had always abhorred that, but now he began to think it had been his demon heart, preparing them for a situation like this. A situation where she would be away from his influence, and Jonathan would have to rely on memories and obedience alone to keep her. He could only hope that he had done enough.

And now, so far away from his sister's love and her light, that demon heart was getting stronger and louder every moment. At the moment it was whispering to him, dark fantasies and twisted dreams. He saw himself hunting a golden shadow, smothering it in darkness, piercing golden skin and consuming the sunlight that poured out of it. Jace wouldn't have the same blood as Seraphina if he didn't have any blood at all.

"Stop worrying about her," his father snapped, though he himself was quite obviously worried. "If it's Jace you're worried about, I'm certain he won't hurt her. In fact, I'm sure they'll get along well, with their blood being so similar."

"Well, he can't have her," he said sullenly.

"Don't speak about people that way, Jonathan," his father reprimanded. "You don't own your sister. You love her."

What's the difference?

"I miss her," he said forlornly.

He wanted to stuff her in his mouth.

"So do I," his father said.

He wanted to make their father watch.

"Enough of this," his father said suddenly. "You have training to complete today, Jonathan. Get up." The small trace of sympathy had vanished from his voice, leaving it cold and empty and hard. "And stop being so moody. You aren't a girl." He slammed the door behind him when he left, leaving Jonathan alone in the echo it created.

_You aren't a girl_, his father's last words echoed in his mind.

_You are what you eat_, his demon heart whispered, and he laughed.

* * *

Sleeping as Seraphina had been an awful idea. Seraphina's nightmares were always worse.

Clary felt awful. Her nerves were frayed, her muscles tense and shaking, her mind scattered and chaotic. Her cold shower helped a bit but not enough, and she stayed in her room for a while as her hair dried and she tried in vain to calm her nerves. She knew finding Jace would be the smartest solution – find Jace, then find Luke, then her mother. But that meant confronting her problems, and that was something she had never been good at.

Her conversation with her father had made her almost-happy for a few moments, but in the unforgiving clarity of day, there were things she couldn't ignore anymore. Like how her father was only proud of her because she had lied about how severely she was failing him. And how she was a world away from her brother, and she couldn't watch the starlight in his hair or listen to his voice or wear his bruises on her skin and she had never been more miserable.

When her hair was dry, she forced herself to drag her weary muscles off of the bathroom floor and make herself presentable. Someone had left clothes for her – a gray t-shirt and jeans – and she was grateful for them even though they were too big. The jeans felt strange against her skin; the only pants she ever wore were leggings, and that was only for training. Her father liked her best in skirts and dresses. He had always been old-fashioned.

She almost tripped over Church when she exited her room, but she was glad he had been there; he led her to everyone else when she asked him, and she was certain she would have gotten lost otherwise. He led her to a kitchen – white walls, a wooden floor, an island in the middle with four stools situated around it.

A slim girl was perched on one of the stools, picking at a bowl of fruit, and Jace and Alec were across from her, having a conversation in low, casual tones. Jace looked up when Clary entered, and Alec followed his gaze to look at her with far more indifference.

"Clary," said Jace in greeting. "Want to go soon?"

"Go where?" Alec asked, his interest piqued.

"Nowhere," Jace answered casually, and Clary was grateful. She was quickly discovering that the more people got involved, the more precarious her situation became.

She took the seat next to the girl whom she assumed was Isabelle, the only seat available, and answered Jace, "Yes, I'd like to go soon, if you don't mind."

"Sure," Jace agreed with a grin. "Isabelle, this is Clary. Clary, our sister, Isabelle."

"Hey," Isabelle said, turning to Clary and offering her a slim hand. Clary took it.

"Hi," she greeted. "Thanks for the clothes. I assume they're yours."

Isabelle nodded and glanced at the too-large shirt Clary was wearing. "Oh, yeah. They are mine, but Jace left them for you." Clary couldn't help the surprised look she cast Jace, finding him looking at her even though Alec was talking to him.

"You can keep them if you want," continued Isabelle. "I never wear them anymore."

"Oh, thanks." Clary was almost certain she would never wear them again – she looked ridiculous – but Isabelle was being friendly so she didn't say so.

"Want anything to eat, Clary?" Jace offered. She shook her head; she didn't think she could keep anything down, considering her anxiety. "Might as well leave now, then." Jace rose to his feet, grabbing a dagger from the table.

"You sure you don't want any help?" Alec offered, hopeful.

"No, we can handle it," said Jace. Alec shot Clary a glare, and she felt a sting of hurt against her will. _She _wasn't the one being rude to him.

"A girl finally shows up and you're keeping her to yourself?" Isabelle demanded angrily. "Do you have any idea how tired I am of hanging out with _you _two?"

"Relax, Isabelle," Jace said with a smirk. "Clary's in town for a while, right?" He addressed the last part to Clary, and she nodded. "So there you go, Izzy. Plenty of time for you two to… wear clothes and cry together."

Isabelle threw an orange at him, and Clary had a feeling it only hit him because he let it. He laughed as Isabelle snapped, "You know I don't cry."

"Right, I forgot," said Jace. "All that water coming out of your face last week had nothing to do with that faery… Melbourne, was it?"

"I hate you," Isabelle hissed venomously.

"More than you hate Melbourne?"

"_Meliorn_," she snapped. "And yes."

Jace turned away from her with a dramatic sigh. "Come on, Clary." When he put a hand on her arm, her stomach lurched. "Let's go."

"Clary, don't believe a word he says about me," Isabelle warned dangerously.

Clary smiled. "I won't."

She called a quick goodbye to Alec and Isabelle as Jace hurried her from the kitchen.

"Excited?" she asked him once they were alone in the hallway, referring to the eager energy that seemed to emanate from him in waves.

"A bit." Jace grinned. "You have no idea how boring things have been lately."

"Boring? You live in New York."

"Yeah, but it's August. Manhattan is a ghost town in August."

"And of course Brooklyn is out of the question."

Jace grinned at her as they entered the elevator. "Fast learner. Unfortunately, we'll have to head back there today. That's where Luke went."

Clary smiled back at him, amused despite herself, but the reminder of why she was with Jace in the first place gave new life to the nervous energy breathing within her.

Jace seemed much more cheerful than he had been when they met, almost all traces of the brooding, intense boy from the night before having disappeared. She added "mood swings" to the mental list she was keeping of things they had in common.

On the journey to Brooklyn, Jace engaged her in easy, pleasant conversation, and she discovered he was very easy to talk to. He was arrogant, sarcastic, at times a bit mean-spirited, but she was too, so she wasn't bothered.

He was also very… touchy. She didn't mind, not particularly, but every time Jace's skin touched hers she felt a jump in her pulse. And then she would hear Jonathan's voice in her head. Sometimes it was just a snarl, other times she heard him whispering entire sentences to her. _Don't speak to him, Seraphina, _she remembered him saying, and then she would feel the faint twinge of a bruise long-healed, a faint reminder of what would happen to her if Jonathan ever found out about this.

"Jace," she said. They had lapsed into silence, but she needed to ask him something.

"Yeah?"

"Was Luke alone when you followed him?"

"For a while he was," answered Jace. "But he was with a woman by the time he got here." At least her suspicions about Jocelyn had been correct.

"Here?" she repeated, confused by his choice of words.

Jace had stopped walking, and he nodded. "This is where he went." He pointed to the building in front of them.

Clary stared at it for a moment in confusion. "So… when you followed Luke, he ran to a … _bookstore_?"

"Well…" said Jace hesitantly. "It may or may not… also be his house."

She turned sharply to face him. "You told me you knew where Luke had gone, and all this time it was his _house_?"

"Yes." He drew out the word and avoided her gaze, sheepish.

"_Damn_ it, Jace," she snapped, "_I _could have found his house!"

"I'm quite certain you could have," he said, "But then how would I have gotten you to the Institute?"

She huffed and brushed past him. "What are you doing?" he called after her.

"If this is the best lead I have," she said shortly over her shoulder, "Then I might as well make the most of it."

"Lead for what?" Jace had jogged to catch up with her, and now he was beside her as she took the path along the side of the house to the backyard. "Why do you need to find him, anyway? I never asked."

"I wouldn't have told you," she said, still irritated with him. "And I'm not telling you now."

As irritated as she was with him, she was glad for his warm presence behind her as she fiddled with the knob on the back door, peering into the darkness beyond with a growing, wary sense of nervousness. The door was locked.

"Use an unlocking rune," suggested Jace.

"Then he'll know we were here."

"Good point," he mumbled disgruntledly.

She picked up a rock that, for some unfathomable reason, was sitting on his porch.

"Is there a key under there or something?"

"No," she answered, before she slammed the rock into one of the window panes of Luke's back door.

"My kind of woman," said Jace, and she didn't need to look at him to know he was smirking.

She ignored him as she reached inside the broken window to unlock the door, swinging it open to reveal a dark, empty kitchen. "Alright," she said, hoping her tone didn't reveal her apprehension. "Let's check it out."

* * *

Maia Roberts crossed the street to avoid a group of teenage boys loitering near an alley, unnerved by their loud laughter and their heavy gazes. Normally, she wouldn't have been so jittery and nervous. Normally, she would have _hoped _for them to give her an excuse to kick their asses. But today was different.

Today was Daniel's birthday.

Or at least, it would be, if he were still alive. All day, she had been preoccupied and tortured with memories of her brother, memories she usually never touched. A memory of Daniel torturing their neighbors' cat when they were very young consumed her so entirely that she passed Luke's house completely and had to backtrack a block to find it again.

She sighed as she fumbled with the keys for a moment before she found the right one and inserted it into the lock, opening the old, creaking door to the dark bookstore. Luke had asked her to keep an eye on the shop while he was gone, which really meant he wanted her to water his plants. She remembered being surprised that he had such a mundane hobby; it was hard to imagine him planting seeds in cool dirt, gently preening the leaves and fronds of delicate plants, when just weeks before he had been a dark stranger entering their lair and challenging their leader, and she had watched his claws tear into Gabriel's skin and his fangs tear into the soft, furred throat, and blood had spattered across the walls and onto the fur of the nervous spectators.

Bat told her they had gotten lucky – most times, when a wolf came out of nowhere and killed a pack leader like that to take control, he was much harsher and crueler than Luke, with much less savory motives. Really, Luke wasn't cruel at all, or even particularly intimidating. And he wasn't too handsome either, so there was still a chance that Maia might trust him one day. She almost did already, with the way he kept them fed and showed concern over injuries and tried to keep the younger wolves out of trouble. Though those were the obligatory responsibilities of any pack leader, Luke carried them out with a willingness and a gentleness that was rare and comforting.

She didn't think she had ever encountered gentleness quite like that, so natural and effortless. Jordan had been gentle for a time, but any good memories she might have had of him were tainted and distorted by the memory of one night. And Daniel had never been gentle. She thought of the pain in her arm when he had broken it, the light in everyone's eyes when they looked at him, the single bruise that had shadowed his temple – the only wound visible when he lay in his coffin and everyone but her cried great, heaving sobs, as though trying to combat the finality of death with their own willful desperation.

And then she was torn from her thoughts when she heard the clattering of shattering glass and she froze, her hand still holding a pitcher of water poised above a tall fern. Beads of cold sweat broke out on her palms and she set the pitcher down for fear of dropping it, and then she was walking lightly down the hallway with a racing heart. The noise had come from downstairs, and she tried to smother her fear as she descended the staircase. _Calm down, Maia_, she thought sternly. What were the odds that whatever was down there could kill a wolf?

But then she unwillingly recalled all of the horrors she had seen since entering the Shadow World, and she realized the odds were not in her favor.

She could hear voices now, and when she reached the bottom of the stairs she peered around the wall timidly, hoping whoever was there wouldn't be able to see her.

She saw two people – teenagers, it looked like. One of them a girl, maybe a bit younger than Maia. And the other a boy, probably a bit older. Maia felt nervousness and instinctual mistrust swell in her chest when she saw that they were both beautiful. And then there was the fact that they had shattered a window to get in, and were now roving through the objects in Luke's kitchen.

Maia's first thought was that they were just hoodlums, petty thieves, given their age. Luke didn't live in the best neighborhood. But as she watched them – the girl with her sharp, fine prettiness and the boy with his lean muscles and delicate beauty, and both of them with a grace that bordered on eerie – she realized that couldn't be true. They were part of _her_ world, the Shadow World; she could sense it.

And when the girl reached forward to examine a picture on the fridge, twisting black marks on her bony wrist were illuminated by the sunlight and Maia's guesses – and fears – were confirmed.

Shadowhunters.

The word alone sent her nails sharpening into claws, her teeth elongating into cruel fangs. She had never had a bad experience with one, personally, but she had heard enough.

Why were they here? They claimed themselves the keepers of the law in the Shadow World, upholders of order. The "Monster Police," Bat liked to call them. Had Luke done something wrong? Broken the law somehow? Was he hiding a sinister secret under his gentle eyes and unassuming demeanor? Most serial killers were clean and friendly, she had heard.

But she trusted modest, gentle Luke over the beautiful strangers in his kitchen, that was for damn sure.

Unconsciously, her body was already preparing for battle. Her vision and her hearing sharpening, her muscles lengthening and hardening. She held herself back from fully morphing into her wolf form, but she was relatively young and she couldn't halt the transformation completely.

And then, with her now-advanced hearing, she heard what the Shadowhunters were saying.

"See anything that could help us?" the boy asked, peering into Luke's almost completely empty bedroom.

The girl sighed. "No, I don't think so. He's gone."

The boy nodded. "Looks like it."

"Maybe if you told me what you were _looking _for," the boy said pointedly, "I would be more help."

"That's unlikely," the girl said with a roll of her eyes.

"Come on, Clary," the boy said, with a grin that combatted the frustration in his tone. "I want to help. I owe you that much, right?"

The girl gave him a sharp glance, but then her gaze softened, and it looked like he had finally worn her down. He leaned forward slightly, in anticipation of what she would say, and Maia did too.

"I'm looking for…" The girl – Clary – held the boy's gaze intensely, indecisive and searching, before she continued, "I'm looking for my mother."

The boy's eyebrows rose, mirroring Maia's own surprise. "Your mother… is a werewolf named Luke?"

Clary rolled her eyes. "No. He knows her, though."

"So… the woman he went to, the one who came here with him before they left… That was your mother?"

"Probably. Did she look like me?"

The boy narrowed his eyes and stepped closer to her, grasping her chin to tilt her face towards him. It was a lame tactic at finding a reason to touch her, Maia thought, and if she weren't so preoccupied with not being found she would have snorted. "I guess," the boy said, eyes still narrowed in contemplation. "I mean, she had red hair, but it was lighter. Your faces don't look that much alike."

"That was her," Clary said with a resigned sigh.

The boy hadn't removed his hand from her face, and the way he was looking at her made Maia think he was going to kiss her. She hoped he didn't – this was awkward enough already. And maybe it was the sunlight glinting against his eyes, but Maia thought she saw something darker in his gaze on the girl, something predatory and hungry that brought up memories of Daniel and Jordan and made her muscles itch to stop him from touching Clary. She didn't know the girl, and there was a large likelihood that she was an enemy of Luke's, but something about her delicateness called to Maia's protective instincts. Her instinct to protect people from boys like Daniel. Boys like the one in front of her, looming over a slender, pretty girl with hunger in his eyes.

Before Maia had to intervene, though, Clary stepped away from the boy and turned back to the picture she had been examining before.

Maia noticed a glint in the boy's eyes, but he seemed composed when he asked Clary, "What's her name? Your mother."

Clary's face was indecipherable, but she paused for a long moment before she answered. "Jocelyn."

And then Maia put the pieces together with a cold wash of dread.

Maia had been the only one at the station when Luke had torn through the doors, frantic and flustered. He had told her that he and a woman named 'Jocelyn' – Maia had heard him mention that name before, but she had never met the woman – had to go; it was an "emergency." He said they were going to the country, to a farm, and that he would be back but not for a while. And then, after a request to water his plants and tell the rest of the pack what had happened, he left, and they hadn't seen him since.

According to Clary, this "Jocelyn" woman was her mother. But Maia couldn't help the nagging sense that Luke's disappearance with Jocelyn had something to do with the Shadowhunters that had just broken into his house. Because Maia understood, from personal experience, the look that had been in Luke's eyes in the minutes before he left. She knew he and Jocelyn weren't just leaving. They were running.

Once again, Maia saw the strangers before her as enemies, dangers, and she thought about attacking them while they were preoccupied with their thoughtful contemplation (on the girl's part) and unrequited lust (on the boy's.) But Shadowhunters were ruthless killers, trained for battle since childhood. For all they were reviled, she had never heard anyone deny that they were dangerous.

If Maia attacked them, there was a large likelihood that they would beat her once they recovered from their surprise. And if something happened to her, Luke would never find out that there were people looking for him, at least not until it was too late. The instinct to protect her pack leader was insistent and suffocating, and so she remained where she was in watchful silence as the Shadowhunters, with their dangerous beauty and unnerving grace, roved through the house, taking in the empty drawers and rooms cluttered with stacks of books before deciding their search was fruitless. If Maia had possessed the bravery to follow them when they roamed further into the house, she would have seen the red-haired girl take a ring from Luke's dresser and slip it into her pocket. But she remained where she was, resolved to keep herself safe so that she could warn Luke.

After a painful eternity that was really only a few minutes, they left through the back door, and Maia watched them until they jumped the fence and she couldn't see them anymore.

As soon as they were gone, she pulled out her phone, her fingers fumbling in the tight pocket of her jeans, and found Luke's number in her contacts. He had told her not to call unless there was an emergency in the pack, but of course he would want to hear about this, right? Choking worry settled in her throat as she dialed his number. Was Luke in serious danger, or was she overreacting? Would Luke be angry that she hadn't done anything? She had been outnumbered; that wasn't her fault. Luke told her he was going out to the country. Did that mean he wouldn't have a signal?

But then she heard a click, and Luke's voice delivered a brisk greeting.

"Luke?" she said tentatively, suddenly uncertain. "It's Maia. I'm sorry, I know you said not to bother you, and I wouldn't have called if I didn't think, I mean, I –"

"It's alright, Maia," Luke interrupted her rambling, concern darkening his voice. "What is it?"

She blew out a breath, calming herself. "I need to tell you something."

* * *

If Clary thought she had felt strained that morning, she was positively shattering into pieces when she left Luke's house. Tiny, unrecognizable pieces. Girl dust.

He was gone. Luke had quite obviously abandoned his apartment – drawers emptied, doors locked – and now she had no idea where to find him.

Her conversation with Valentine the night before had bolstered her confidence and enthusiasm, but now she found herself in even more despair than she had before. She should have told her father the truth. She should have been honest with him. He could have fixed this. He would have known what to do; he always did. Guilt sank its claws into her chest, dread slamming her heart into her stomach.

Jace nudged her arm, and for a moment she was irritated at the distraction, but his touch was more comforting than she wanted to admit, and she needed to be nice to him. She couldn't help but feel that telling him the truth had been a mistake, but Valentine had insisted that it was what he wanted her to do. But even if it was only half the truth, Clary knew that anyone knowing she was looking for Jocelyn could be dangerous.

"Jace." Her voice was quieter than she had intended it to be, but he heard her and turned to look at her, expectant. "Please don't tell anyone." When he looked confused, she explained, "Why I'm here. Please don't tell anyone that I'm looking for my mother."

Her urgency was present in her voice, she knew, and Jace nodded slowly. "I won't," he said earnestly. "I wasn't going to."

"Not even Hodge," she said. _Especially _not Hodge.

"I won't tell Hodge," he promised.

"Well, you seem to tell him a lot of things," she said bitterly.

Jace sighed. "I usually don't, really."

"Well, why did you tell him about _me_?" she demanded.

"You were… frustrating me."

"I didn't even _know _you."

"Fine; the _idea _of you was frustrating me," he amended.

"Wow," she said sarcastically. "I frustrate people who don't even know me? I'm more annoying than I thought."

"You aren't annoying," he told her. "I never said annoying. I said 'frustrating.'"

"I suppose we can pretend there's a difference."

"There _is_," Jace argued, running a hand through his hair.

She grinned. "Am I _frustrating _you?" she asked.

He smirked and dropped his hand back into his lap. "Always."

They lapsed into silence again, and her misery returned as soon as Jace stopped talking to her. She thought of getting his attention again just to comfort herself, but that would be pathetic. She toyed with the ring in her pocket, the one she had stolen from Luke's room. She didn't know why she had taken it. It was a Shadowhunter ring, the kind they wore in honor of their families, and she had recognized the Graymark symbol engraved into the metal. Maybe she had taken it because he didn't deserve to have it. He wasn't a Shadowhunter anymore.

"Are you… okay?" Jace asked, obviously uncomfortable, and she realized she had been digging her fingernails into her palms so hard that her knuckles were white.

She quickly unclenched her fists and glared sharply in response, irritated and embarrassed both that she was being so emotional and that he had noticed. "Yes," she said. "I'm fine."

Jace looked away from her, still uncomfortable. They sat in silence while Clary attempted to control the stinging in her eyes, and she had almost composed herself when Jace turned to her and said, "It'll be okay. I'll help you find your mother."

She didn't know why, but something about the earnestness in his voice as he said it sent a sharp pang through her chest, and then there were tears in her eyes and her throat was closing and she couldn't believe how embarrassed she was.

She inhaled deeply, attempting to calm herself but only managing a shaky breath. Jace glanced at her nervously and then away from her, and when he looked back it was with a firm, resolved gentleness and then his arm was around her, pulling her towards him. "We don't have to talk about it anymore," he said firmly. "But I'm here. I'm helping you."

For a warm, peaceful moment, she allowed herself to lean into his embrace. She had always liked physical affection, and she was amazed at how much it helped her misery to be held so gently. But then she had to ask, "Why?" Why would he help her?

"Because I want to."

Clary knew that wasn't possible. Never in her life had she seen anyone act selflessly, even when it seemed that way. There was always a reason. And she would figure out what Jace's was before she trusted him.

Wouldn't that be nice, though? If he were telling the truth?

She didn't know where that voice had come from, but she ignored it.

Jonathan snarled in her head. She pulled away from Jace's arm. Jace seemed a bit miffed, but she could bear that easier than she could bear Jonathan's anger ripping through her mind.

"Is your mother a Shadowhunter?" asked Jace after a few minutes. He managed to sound curious without being prying.

"She used to be," she answered. Jace seemed surprised, and confused, and her natural instinct was to leave it at that. But she was supposed to trust him. She was supposed to include him. Resignedly, she continued, "She left my family when I was a baby."

"Because she didn't want to be a Shadowhunter anymore?" Jace tried to piece the information together.

"I don't know," said Clary slowly, unsure of how to avoid saying anything too revealing. "That may have been it. But my father doesn't like talking about it, so I… I don't know."

Jace processed the information thoughtfully, but he didn't offer her empty apologies or look at her with pity. She was grateful for that.

"I can't imagine that," said Jace. "Not wanting to be a Shadowhunter anymore."

"Me either," Clary agreed. The more time she spent with Jace, the more surprised she felt that they were so alike. She had always thought Jonathan would be the only person she ever felt any connection with. But she felt something with Jace. She had no idea what it was – all she could make out was that it was warm and subtle, almost magnetic, and she couldn't begin to imagine what caused it.

When she turned to Jace, he was staring at her. She wondered nervously if he had said something when she wasn't paying attention – that happened to her a lot – but he didn't look expectant. Thoughtful, maybe. "Can we stop at my apartment?" she asked. "It would be nice to change my clothes."

He gave her a once over and smirked. "Isabelle isn't exactly your size," he agreed. "But she does have the cutest clothes."

"Nonsense. That black t-shirt does wonders for your skin tone," she told him.

He smiled, examining his shirt where it met the tanned skin of his arm. "It does, doesn't it?"

She pushed him lightly, laughing, ignoring the jolt of her pulse when she touched him. _Idiot_, she told herself. He was practically her brother.

Jace nudged her to stand up. "This is our stop, if we're going to your apartment." She complied, and he kept a hand on her back as they pushed their way through the throng of people in the subway.

They made idle small talk on the walk to her apartment, with Clary frequently complaining about the heat and the ridiculous amount of people. During their conversation, she discovered, to her delight, that Jace shared her passion for weapons. They spent a good few blocks discussing the relative advantages of daggers and Seraph blades, and she showed him the faery dagger she had obtained (though she dodged her way around telling him just _how _she had gotten it).

Jace asked to hold it and she let him, and he let out a low whistle. "Look at this engraving," he said in wonder. He shook his head. "Only a faery could manage that. Why would they make it out of iron, though?"

She shrugged. "I wondered that too. But I'm not complaining."

He handed it back to her. "I wouldn't either."

"Do you use a dagger?"

He nodded and pulled one from his belt, handing it to her. She stopped walking as soon as she recognized it, and he looked back at her in surprise. "What?" he asked.

She tore her gaze from the dagger. "Nothing," she answered. But it wasn't nothing. This was Valentine's dagger. She remembered it from when she was younger, recognized the exact weight of it and the sheen of the metal.

Jonathan should have been given this dagger. Not Jace. Jonathan had a dagger, of course, but it had been made for him. Inheritances were a different matter. Jonathan was Valentine's firstborn, his only true heir, and yet Valentine had given his dagger to Jace. Even _she _had gotten a dagger – her mother's, which she resented, but it was still a family weapon.

She handed the dagger back to Jace and he seemed to notice her sudden sullenness, but he didn't comment on it. She was grateful for that, at least. She reminded herself that it wasn't Jace's fault, that he didn't know, and forced herself to restart their conversation. After a few minutes, the stutter had been forgotten and they were at ease again, comfortable and content.

She didn't notice they were at her apartment until Jace stopped, looking at her expectantly. "So… you're just changing your clothes?" he asked, but there was a strange tone in his voice.

"Yes," she said slowly. "Why?"

"Maybe… you should just stay at the Institute, for a few days," he suggested.

She was surprised. "Why?"

"I don't know." He shrugged, refusing to meet her gaze. "It just seems easier." He looked to her, maybe to gauge her reaction, but she didn't say anything. He continued, "Maybe we could train sometime, and I could show you that I am, in fact, far better than you."

She smirked. "Yeah, right."

"Really," he said more seriously, "I want to help you find your mother."

"Why?" She became aware of just how often she was asking him that question and realized she had never had this much difficulty understanding anyone. People had always seemed so simple to her, so transparent and unoriginal. But Jace was smoke and sunlight and a thousand shadows in the shape of a boy.

"Like I said, I've been bored," he said. "I just… want to."

"Alright," she said, and he smiled. A real smile, instead of his usual smirk. She couldn't help but smile back. "I'll be right back."

In her apartment, she changed into a blue skirt and a white v-neck, relieved at how much cooler she felt already. She hadn't minded the jeans, but they were far too hot for the heat outside. After grabbing the essentials and stuffing them into her backpack, she decided to bring her sketchbook too. It was uncomfortably heavy to drag around everywhere, but she needed it. Maybe she could finally draw Jace, like she had wanted to when she first met him. Some time with a piano wouldn't hurt either, she thought. Prolonged periods without her music or her drawing always made her moody.

When she came back through the front doors, stepping once more into the stifling muggy air, she noticed Aksinya leaning out of her window on the first floor. And then she noticed Jace, looking very uncomfortable with his shoulders hunched and his hands in his pockets.

"Aksinya," she called nervously, hoping to spare Jace any more of the embarrassment he had undoubtedly just experienced. Jace turned to look at her when she spoke, and then his face flushed a deep red. She had never seen him blush before.

"Hi, girl," said Aksinya, her glass eye reflecting the sunlight with a harsh glare. "Leaving again so soon?"

"Yes, I'm…" She looked to Jace, "Staying with a friend for a few days."

Aksinya grunted. "_Friend_," she scoffed. "Where I'm from, boys don't want _friends_ with pretty girls," she reproached through her thick accent.

Clary felt her cheeks flush. "Well, here in the free world it happens more often than you'd think." Luckily, Aksinya wasn't offended. Her laugh was a deep, throaty thing, rough and unmelodic, as if she smoked too much. Or shouted at strangers from her window too often. She gave Clary a resigned wave before she retreated back into her apartment, and Clary was envious of the rush of cool air that fanned out when she closed her window. It was so _hot _outside. Idris never got this hot.

She jogged down the steps to Jace, wincing in sympathy. "Was it bad?" she asked, nodding her head towards Aksinya's window.

"Awful," he answered.

"What did she say?" Clary asked.

"She…" Jace flushed again, and Clary decided she liked it when he was embarrassed. It was very amusing. And, though she tried to ignore it, quite endearing. "Well, she made some very… _presumptuous _assumptions about our… our… us."

"She's like that, sorry," said Clary, beginning to walk towards the subway. Jace followed. "I guess I should have warned you."

"It's fine," said Jace offhandedly, seemingly recovered.

"Does the Institute have a piano?" she asked, hoping to change the subject for Jace's sake.

"Oh," he said, his eyes widening. "Did I wake you, last night?"

"That was _you_?" she asked, surprised. She had been nearly convinced that the song from the night before had only been a part of her dream, unable to fathom why anyone would have been playing the piano that late at night. Apparently, though, Jace had been.

"Yes, that was me," he answered.

Suddenly, a dark shadow beside her rushed forward, and then Jace's arm was around her and he was pulling her behind him, shielding her. She felt a confusing mixture of gratitude for his protectiveness and anger at his assuming she couldn't take care of herself.

"Whoa, there," a deep voice said amusedly. "No need to panic. The big, bad warlock just wants a conversation."

"Casper," Jace spat. "What are you doing here?"

"Not a conversation with _you_, Goldilocks. I meant the pretty one."

Clary pushed her way out from behind Jace. "What do you want, Casper?"

Casper was all cool arrogance and dark glamour as he stepped forward, ignoring Jace completely as he moved to stand in front of her. "Haven't seen you in a while, Pixie. Maybe I just wanted to make sure you were alright."

"I doubt that," she muttered.

"Well, I was hoping to speak with you in private." He threw a dark glance in Jace's direction, and the hostility looked eerie glinting from his purple eyes.

"We're busy," said Jace, just as unfriendly.

"It's alright, Jace," said Clary. "I'll only be a minute."

Casper threw Jace a triumphant, goading smirk as she walked over to him, and she elbowed his ribs sharply as he led her into her alley. "What was that for?" he asked, but there was laughter in his voice.

"Provoking him. There's no need to be so nasty."

"He's the one who jumped into demon-killer overdrive the minute I showed up."

"You startled him."

"Well, I'm sorry I scared your boyfriend." The apology was reluctant and sarcastic and mocking, and Clary narrowed her eyes.

"He isn't my boyfriend. Why are you here in the first place, Casper?" They were in the alley now, and Casper maneuvered them so that her back was against the wall and he was in front of her.

"I wasn't lying when I said I just wanted to see you," he said, his voice softer now that they were alone. "You just ran off, last time. You never called me."

"You didn't call me either."

"Yes I did," he argued, and she remembered that she had, in fact, ignored several calls from him without thinking twice about it.

"Come do something with me." Casper slid his hand into hers, but she shook him off.

"I can't. I'm busy."

"With what?" Casper demanded. "_Him_?" He jerked his head towards Jace, who was hovering nearby but – thankfully – not close enough to be able to hear them.

"Maybe," she answered evasively, trying to step around Casper.

He blocked her way, forcing her back to the wall. "Come on, Clary. Those Shadowhunters are so _boring_." His voice took on a hard, assertive edge when he continued, "You aren't like them."

"You don't know that."

"Sure I do." He smiled down at her, his canines just a bit too sharp to be human. "Shadowhunters don't fit in with my friends very often. You're different. I know it."

She didn't answer him. She knew she was different than other Shadowhunters – her father had made sure of that – but the thought of being like _Downworlders _instead was unsettling and repugnant. It didn't matter that she was as restless and dark as they were. There had to be _something _different about her… right?

"See?" Casper said with a flashing grin. "I'm right. You know it."

"I wasn't aware this was an argument. I really have to go," she said, stepping around him again. This time he let her, but she could see he was irritated.

"Fine," he said shortly. "I'll be by the river tonight. You can find me if you get bored."

"Maybe." She wasn't very fond of Casper, but she had a feeling she probably _would _get bored at the Institute.

"_Maybe_," Casper repeated mockingly, but he was smiling again. "Are you _ever_ sure of anything?"

"Not really." She heard him laugh as she walked across the street to rejoin Jace, but when she turned around for a last glance at Casper he had disappeared. She shivered. Magic was so _unnerving_.

She wasn't surprised when Jace denied her attempts at conversation and ignored her during their walk to the subway, but it still bothered her. She had liked talking to him, she realized. Somehow, he had managed to make her forget the chaotic mess that was her mind.

But now that he was ignoring her, it was back. Luckily, Casper's unexpected appearance had given her an idea. She toyed with the Graymark ring in her pocket and formulated the beginnings of a plan.

The sun was setting by the time they reached the Institute, and Jace was still angry. And the fact that he was angry had made _her _angry. Who was he to get angry about her having a _conversation _with someone else? Was he that jealous of a person? She wondered how possessive he must be with his siblings and imagined it must be unbearable. He didn't even _know_ her, and he was being awful.

It almost reminded her of her brother, though Jace was decisively less aggressive. For a moment, she considered it was another trait that Valentine had somehow caused in his children. But _she _wasn't like that. She had never been possessive, not of people or items or anything at all. She changed her mind about people all the time – about her feelings for them, about what she wanted from them, about whether she wanted anything to do with them at all – and it didn't bother her when other people acted the same. She couldn't imagine acting any differently.

Maybe she and Jace were less alike than she thought.

On the bright side, after so much time left alone to her thoughts, an idea was forming in her mind. A last ditch effort at salvation. "I'm not staying here tonight," she told Jace, lagging behind as he began to walk through the gates to the Institute.

He looked at her for the first time in several minutes, surprised, his eyes widened. "Why not?" he asked.

"I have some things I need to do."

"You said you would stay," he protested, and she couldn't fathom the hurt in his voice. Why did he care? Hadn't he planned on ignoring her anyway?

"I forgot about it earlier," she said shortly, exasperated. "But I just remembered, and I need to go."

"Right _now_?"

"_Yes_, now!" The hurt in his eyes overpowered her resolution to be angry with him, and she softened her voice. "I can come back tomorrow morning, if you haven't changed your mind about helping me.

"I haven't," he said quietly.

"Then I'll come back," she promised. "Tomorrow."

He caught her arm before she could leave. "You aren't going to see Casper, are you?" he asked, his brow furrowed.

"What if I am?" she snapped before she could think.

"You shouldn't," he said, dropping her arm as though she had burned him, his jaw clenching.

"Why not?"

"He's…," Jace seemed to search for a word, settling on, "trouble."

Clary quirked an eyebrow. "Well, _yeah_. He's a _warlock._"

Jace scoffed and rolled his eyes. "Oh, great. You're one of _those _Shadowhunters."

Now she was really angry. She was what her father had made her, and she had thought that Jace would be the same. "You would be too, if you had any sense."

"Whatever, Clary," he snapped. "Have fun being a hypocrite with your warlock boyfriend."

"He's not my boyfriend!" she protested, affronted.

"I don't care!" he shouted back just as loudly.

She huffed and turned her back on him, clutching her sleeves tight enough to push the blood from her fingers. She felt him watch her as she walked away, felt the burn of his eyes boring into her skin and wondered why his gaze was always so warm.

"Hey." His voice – apologetic but still frustrated – was soft, but she heard him and turned around. His eyes were golden fire shining against the light of the setting sun, and for once she found herself looking into someone's eyes with no clue what they were feeling, no idea what they burned for. And then all he said was "See you later."

"See you," she said with a small nod, and he offered her the twisted remains of a smile.

* * *

Casper was by the river, where he said he would be. Clary arrived to the stares and leers of several Downworlders she hadn't met before, until finally she reached Casper where he stood watching two werewolves engaged in a scuffle. He slipped an arm wordlessly around her shoulders when she stopped next to him, pulling her to his side.

He turned away from the fight long enough to kiss her neck. She fought the urge to cringe away from him. "I knew you'd come," he whispered into her skin.

"I didn't come to socialize," she said, hoping she sounded firm.

"Oh?" The glint in his eyes revealed his interest.

"Can I speak to you in private?" she asked.

He grinned. "Certainly." He led her away from the festivities of his friends to a pocket of quiet darkness under the bridge. He didn't waste any time once she was sure no one could hear them. "What is it, Pixie?"

"I need a warlock," she began.

"What a coincidence," he said brightly. "_I'm _a warlock."

"Yes, I'm aware." She tried to hide her smile.

"And what would a good little Shadowhunter need a warlock for?"

Though his condescension grated on her nerves, she forced herself to remain calm. "I'm looking for someone. I need a tracking spell."

Casper grew more serious. "Hm," he said thoughtfully. "Did you have an object in mind? For me to use?"

She pulled Luke's ring from her pocket. "Would this work?"

He took it from her, examining it for a moment in contemplation. A faint purple glow emanated from his fingers for a few moments, and then he nodded. "Yes, this will work."

"So you can do it, then?"

"I can do it. But am I doing this for a customer?" Casper asked with a sly glint in his eyes, walking closer until he was looming over her. "Or… a friend?" The leering caress with which he spoke the word _friend _didn't sound friendly at all.

And that was when she realized the monthly allowance her father was granting her was nowhere near enough to cover a warlock's charge.

"A friend?" she answered tentatively.

"_Are _we friends, Clarissa?" He stepped even closer.

"Yes," she answered quietly.

"I don't believe you," said Casper with cool nonchalance. "You didn't seem very happy to see me earlier today."

"You… I… It was a bad time. Casper," she pleaded. "I need this."

His eyes flashed excitedly. "What was that?"

"I need this," she repeated. Noticing how his arrogance made his malice waver, she amended, "I need you."

"I like the sound of that, Pixie." He kissed her cheek, and she thought it was the gentlest he had ever touched her. "Unfortunately, I don't do anything for free."

She snatched the ring back from him. "Then I might as well find someone else."

"Now, now," he said lightly, pushing her hair behind her ear. "I'm not asking for much. I won't charge you. I just need a quick favor, and then you'll find your Graymark." She was surprised he had recognized the symbol on the ring.

"What sort of favor?"

"I need something too," he said, serious once more. "If you get it for me, I'll perform the tracking spell free of charge."

She paused, considering it, and then decided it was the best offer she would find. "What is it?"

"It's a book," he said eagerly. "A spell book."

She hesitated again. "Who has it?"

Casper pronounced the name with a snarl that bared his sharp teeth. "Magnus Bane."

"And you want me to… _steal _it from him?" She remembered Magnus as she had seen him at the post office –tall, deceptively strong, with a raw, ancient power burning behind his amber eyes – and felt apprehension immediately take root in her chest.

"Well, I'm fairly certain that asking nicely won't yield very positive results." Casper smirked. "Though, I must say, you're quite the charming little creature. Maybe you could pull it off."

"You want me to steal it," she repeated.

"Essentially, yes."

"And you can't get it yourself because…?"

"He knows I want it, the bastard," said Casper bitterly. "And there's no way he'd ever let me have it. He hates me."

"And what makes you think I'd have better luck?" she asked.

"He would never expect you to try to steal it. The book is useless to anyone but a warlock."

"So, I get the book for you, and you find the owner of that ring."

"Correct. Sound fair enough?"

"I suppose."

He extended a hand and she shook it, and then he abandoned the formality to sling his arm around her waist. "Enough business for tonight," he proclaimed brightly. "We have a party to go to."

An hour later found them in the same group he had spent the last gathering with, though he wasn't paying his friends much attention. He stroked Clary's shoulder as they sat next to each other in the cooling night air, and she was grateful that he wasn't too talkative. He still reminded her of her brother sometimes, in that dark glint in his eyes and his cool, brooding silence. She had a feeling she wouldn't tolerate him otherwise.

And luckily, she had long ago mastered the art of getting what she wanted from her brother. There was something she wanted now, and an instinct she had developed over years of dealing with Jonathan told her just what she needed to do to get it.

"Casper?" she whispered, running her fingers through his hair.

He smiled slowly, his eyes dark when he turned to her. "Yes?"

She slid onto his lap and he put his hands on her hips, and she ignored the voice telling her that her father would murder her for this. "I know when I'm getting the book from Magnus," she said softly into his ear, her fingers still running through his hair. He hummed in satisfaction. "He's having a party the day after tomorrow," she explained. "He invited me. I'll do it then."

"That's my girl," he murmured with a sly grin.

"But I was wondering…" She slid her hands down to caress his face, her thumbs on his sharp cheekbones. "Could you do the tracking spell before then? Like… tomorrow?"

He groaned. "You little devil."

She kissed him; lightly and quickly, so that she wouldn't lose her nerve. "Please," she implored. "I'll get the book for you, I promise. But I really need to find him," she said, brushing the ring in his pocket so that he knew who she meant.

He narrowed his eyes, regarding her for a moment. Then he sighed. "Alright. Tomorrow morning, I'll do it."

She beamed a bright smile and Casper granted her an amused smirk before she kissed him, trying to ignore how cold he felt and how much she wanted to be away from him, at home, preferably asleep.

She stayed with him an hour more, out of obligation and a desire to keep him happy, enduring kisses with grim fortitude and pretending his touch didn't unsettle her.

She let him walk her home, let him hold her hand, but by the time she was alone in her dark apartment he had vanished from her thoughts like smoke.

Instead, as she lay in her dark room and listened to the noise of traffic outside her window, she thought of a different boy, and how his touch was always warm and never unsettling and how he reminded her of the better parts of herself, and how his light seemed to burn away her darkness like the sun.

For the first time, she fell asleep without thinking of her brother first, without severing the identity rune to live with her memories for a few blissfully melancholy moments. She fell asleep that night wishing she was in a different small bed in a different dark room, with the sound of birds singing outside her window and the rustle of wind through tall trees, and a boy with golden hair playing a broken song of sorrow that slid between her pulse and sent her heart aching with light.

* * *

**Why is this chapter so long? I'm as confused as you are.**

**I tried editing this to make it shorter. I really did. **

**Sometimes I just need chapters where I set things up so stuff can happen. Maybe that's normal. Maybe I'm just a bad writer. Maybe you're just impatient. I never said I was _good _at this, you know. **

**The next chapter will be more exciting, I promise. Like, a lot more exciting. Probably. **


	12. Chapter 12

**It's TMI Tuesday, so I am updating this TMI fanfic.**

**And if you're interpreting TMI the other way, I'm prepared for that too: ****In the Clockwork Princess Epilogue, I experienced a very strange, uncomfortable transition from wanting to marry Will to wanting him to be my dad. **

**This has been a glimpse into the mind of the author.**

**Now, an apology. To those of you who reviewed, I probably (almost definitely) said something about how _crazy long _this chapter was going to be. And while it isn't short, per se, nor is it _crazy long_. While I was working on it, I stubbornly rejected splitting it into two chapters even though it was the right decision, and then last night I finally decided to do it. There are a few reasons for that, which I am only explaining as part of my apology for misleading you all (and not out of a misled belief that you actually care why I did it):**

**1) Even though I knew it would be long, I didn't realize until a few days ago just how _ridiculously long _it really would have been. No one would have enjoyed reading that much at a time. **

**2****) The second part of "this chapter" (which will now be the next chapter) was giving me a lot more trouble than the first part. A lot more than I expected. And I want to take my time with it, but I also didn't want to keep you waiting any longer. So here we are. **

**3) As I mentioned, it was the right decision plot-wise anyway. **

**4) Bonus: Since I was working on the next chapter as part of this chapter, it's already almost done. So the next update won't be too far away.**

* * *

_"They've promised that dreams can come true - but forgot to mention that nightmares are dreams, too." – Oscar Wilde_

* * *

After exiting her apartment by way of the fire escape to avoid her eccentric landlord, Clary hopped into an old, large blue van to see Simon at the wheel, looking quite striking in a black t-shirt that emphasized the paleness of his skin. She told him so.

"Striking?" he repeated with a laugh. "Well, thanks. If that was a compliment."

"It was," she assured him as he pulled out of her alley and into nighttime traffic; bustling and bright and loud.

"Remind me where we're going, again?" Simon asked.

She recited the address she had been memorizing since that morning.

Simon narrowed his eyes. "That isn't in the city."

"I figured it wouldn't be…" she said. "But I forgot to mention it to you. Sorry."

"It's fine. Eric's with his girlfriend; he won't miss the van. It would help to have a better idea of where we're going, though. Do you have the name of a town or something?"

She shook her head. "I just got the address from Casper when he did the tracking spell… Should I call him and ask?"

"If you don't mind."

She sighed as she pulled out her phone, half-relieved and half-dreading when Casper answered on the second ring. "_Clarissa_," he drew out her name in a long, laughing shout, and she heard a loud roar of voices in the background – girlish laughter and boyish shouts and music and other miscellaneous noises.

"Having fun tonight, Casper?"

"Not as much as I do with you, lovely."

"Right," she said, unamused. "I called to ask if you could give me a better idea of the location you got from the spell. When I got the address from you earlier, I forgot to ask."

"Sounds like a problem you wouldn't be having if you had let _me_ take you, like I offered." His tone was still lighthearted, but she knew she had irritated him earlier when she said she would find a different ride.

"Casper," she whined. "I don't have time for this. Please, just tell me."

"Why don't you come spend some time with me, and I'll take you there in a little while?"

"I'll take this opportunity to remind you I haven't gotten your book yet."

Casper sighed wearily. "I knew I shouldn't have let you trick me into doing the spell early. Remind me to be more careful of your guile in the future."

"Casper," she warned.

"You're right, it's kind of hot. Alright, I'll tell you."

He launched into a set of directions that Clary didn't understand in the slightest, and she threw a hopelessly confused glance at Simon. He gestured for the phone, and she interrupted Casper, "Here, wait. Simon's driving me, tell him."

She handed over the phone and, from the side of the conversation she could hear, Simon was having better luck with the directions than she had.

"Got it, thanks," Simon said after a while, and he began to hand the phone back to her but then stopped, confused. "What?" he asked in surprise, but she couldn't hear what Casper was saying. Simon looked at her with wide, embarrassed eyes, stuttering. "I… I don't know… _What_? No, I don't, we don't –"

Now Clary could make out Casper's laughter, loud and rude and taunting. "Fuck you, Casper," Simon snapped sullenly before he hung up and handed her phone back to her.

"Yep, hate him," Simon declared, as if his conversation with Casper had affirmed a guess.

"What did he say?" she asked.

Simon only shook his head, and even without the telltale blush a human would have had, she could see he was flustered.

Clary hummed sympathetically. "He isn't exactly a ray of sunshine, I'll admit."

Simon shook his head again. "I don't know how you spend so much time with him."

"I don't spend _that _much time with him. But he isn't that bad, really. He's interesting, at least."

"Interesting," he repeated. "Is that what matters to you?"

"Well," she hesitated. "Sort of?"

Simon didn't offer comment or criticism, didn't let even a note of emotion into his voice when he had asked, but she had the uncomfortable feeling of being judged anyway.

"Will it take us very long to get there?" she asked, changing the subject.

"Hour and a half, maybe two hours. It's out in the country. A farm, probably."

His answer made her glad she had decided to ask him for a ride rather than accepting Casper's offer. Two hours with Casper in an enclosed space would be a disaster. And Simon put her at ease as often as he challenged her, which made him as comforting as he was interesting. She caught herself at that word again – interesting. Was it wrong to think about people that way? She had never thought so. But why else would Simon have asked?

Aside from the emotional benefits of Simon's company, he was making her increasingly aware of the fact that she wasn't at all used to the world outside the isolated manor she had grown up in. She had met many people, but never really _seen _anyone aside from her brother and her father. She was prone to momentary distractions – boys visiting for the summer, other girls her age; fascinating creatures that she met at large events where she could observe and go unnoticed – but she always returned to her family as her only real option for companionship or emotion. Any time she got close to another person, she was quickly driven back by customs she was unfamiliar with, behaviors that didn't make sense to her, emotions she would rather not feel – an entire world of things she didn't understand.

Her father had taught her how to be charming. How to make people like her, how to get what she wanted from them. He had taught her to analyze people and decipher their motivations, their strength as it related to hers, and above all, their weaknesses. But he had never taught her to _understand _them. A part of her – an instinct, a whisper of what might have occurred naturally if not for her father's interference – was able to glean this understanding on a metaphysical level. But whenever she tried to take those emotions and process them, understand them, put them into words – they became mangled and distorted and slipped through her grasp like water.

But now, thrust into the world outside of her home, she was forced every day to _see _people. To force her way past her initial instinct to see them as tools and toys and distractions and accept the fact that they had emotions and thoughts. And, even more than that, to accept the fact that those emotions and thoughts _meant _something. That they were important. That they had a larger purpose than her father – cynical and aloof as he was – had taught her to expect.

"When you called," Simon interrupted her thoughts, "To ask for a ride. You said… that you're going to see your mother?"

"Yes," she answered.

"Why does _Casper_ know where your mother lives?" he asked, not accusing but curious. "And why don't you?"

For a moment, she hesitated. Telling Jace had been one thing – her father wanted to trust Jace eventually, and he wanted Jace to be included in their plans. Simon – a vampire, a Downworlder – was a different matter entirely.

But then Clary realized she _wanted _to tell Simon. She felt the words crawling up her throat, dragging her sadness with them, and she couldn't help but feel that telling kind, gentle Simon about the source of her anguish might alleviate it, at least a little.

"I've never met her before," she said. "I came here to find her."

"Does she know you're coming?"

"No."

Her nervousness must have been present in her answer, because he turned to her and gave her knee a reassuring squeeze. It was such a simple gesture, and yet she spent a long while thinking about it, because no one had ever done that to her before. She figured it must be normal, considering the natural ease with which Simon had done it.

When she looked at him, she saw a faint smile playing at the corner of his lips, and she was confused by him even more.

"Why are you smiling?" she asked him perplexedly.

He explained, "Now I know why you said you didn't have a mother, the other day. I guess… it's just nice to understand you, for once."

"I'm difficult to understand?"

"Why do you sound surprised? Of course you are."

"I guess… I didn't realize that."

"No one's ever said that to you before?" Now he sounded surprised.

"No…" He shook his head with a disbelieving smile, like she had confused him again. "I don't know much about you either, you know," she pointed out defensively.

"Unlike _you_, I'd tell you if you asked." Though the words were critical, he said them playfully. "Go ahead, ask me anything."

It took her a minute to decide what to ask him. She realized she had never had to get to know anyone before – she had grown up with her brother, and had never cared enough about anyone else.

She began with something easy. "What kind of music do you listen to?" Music was safe, but it was important too. At least, to her it was.

"'You' as in _me_ or 'you' as in people who didn't grow up in an isolated country for the angelic warrior elite?"

She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. "You as in _you_. Simon."

He excitedly rattled off a few names she had never heard before, and, upon noticing how lost she was, he laughed. He reached across her to open the glove compartment, rifling through the discs inside with a critical eye. After a moment, he sighed in defeat, rolling his eyes. "Eric's music sucks. I can't believe we're in the same band."

"You're in a _band_?" she asked, surprised.

"Yeah, we're awful," he said with a self-deprecating laugh. "You should come hear us play sometime. We'll never land a real performance, but we practice a lot."

She nodded. "That sounds…"

"Interesting?" he finished with a smile.

She smiled too, the action coming easier to her now that they were getting further and further from the city. She did like the chaos and the noise and the excitement; it suited her. But she also missed home; the deep forests and calm waters and the clean air, and though the countryside of New York couldn't compare, it was a slight relief to the aching homesickness in her chest.

Her aching for her brother, however, wasn't soothed at all. If anything it almost worsened; the trees made her remember her adventures with Jonathan in the forest. The sight of her skin, bared by the sleeveless shirt she had chosen because of the heat, looked strange without the blue-black bloom of flowering bruises. Her heart felt light, like a weight had been lifted from it. But the weight that she found missing from her wasn't a burden; it had been a comfort. It had been the weight of knowing she belonged to someone; the weight of another heart pressing against hers, beating to the same rhythm.

_You still belong to him_.

But she _didn't_, at least not in the same way. Clary was different from Seraphina. She had the same soul, the same heart, but "Clary" had never lived with Jonathan. He had never exerted his control over her. She had never worn his bruises or had dark adventures with him in a deep forest or stayed up at night to draw pictures of his handsome face until her eyes ached or whispered to him in the darkness that everything would be alright, that she loved him. She had those memories, she had the same feelings for him; but it was different, somehow, in a way she couldn't understand. She would have to see him again for it to make sense.

Without the weight of her brother's dark heart, she felt lost. Like her heart was an abandoned house that anyone could enter. Like it might float out of her chest and disappear from her, and she would be helpless to stop it. She had never lived this way, so alone and unburdened. She didn't like it.

As her own restlessness grew, she became aware of a similar anxiety in Simon. It was hard to detect such things without the physical signs a human would show; the stuttering, thunderous beat of a restless heart; skin flushed with scarlet fear. But there were other things, things that made her killer's edge extend its cruel-tipped claws. His eyes were wide, darting, dark-filled; his muscles twitched with restless bursts of energy.

"Are you alright?" she asked him.

He turned to her with wide eyes. "Hm? Yeah. Yes, I'm fine."

She stared at his still-jittering leg, raising an eyebrow. "Are you sure?"

"Yes, I just…" He looked at her and then back at the road. "I'm not really supposed to be doing this."

"I thought you said your friend didn't mind."

Simon shook his head. "No, he doesn't. I don't mean the car. I'm just… I'm not allowed to leave the city without permission. And I'm probably not supposed to be with a Shadowhunter, either."

She sat in stunned silence for a moment, staring at him, but he wouldn't meet her eyes. "Why are you doing it, then?" she asked finally.

"I… don't know." He seemed uncomfortable.

"I didn't know those things," she said quietly. "Why didn't you say anything when I asked? You didn't have to do this for me."

He met her gaze for a single moment, his eyes large and dark and earnest. He looked away again before he answered, "I wanted to spend time with you. I didn't know when else I would get the chance."

He didn't say anything after that, and she didn't either. His affection for her, and his gentleness, soothed a dark part of her heart that she had become certain would be restless and mangled forever. But she also knew it was very, very dangerous. For both of them.

And if that weren't enough, she felt undeserving in the face of his kindness – guilty, even. Because she knew she didn't deserve it. Because one day, Simon would be dead. And it would be because of her. Her father would wield the sword that eradicated the Downworlders, but only because she had been created and perfected to help him, only because she was compliant with his wishes.

For the first time, she recognized the irony of the situation she was in. Retrieving the Mortal Cup was the first part of Valentine's plan, and she had enlisted the help of a Downworlder to get it. She shrank into her seat as she realized how cruel and selfish she was. And all of this without even _realizing_ how awful she was being. She knew her father was right, that the world needed to change. Even Simon, friendly and innocent as he was, would die, and it would be for the better because no other person would lose their soul to immortality as he had.

She heard Valentine's voice in her mind, cyclical and certain and impossible to ignore. _Downworlders aren't capable of selflessness; they're hardly capable of independent thought at all. They're pack animals. _A part of her submitted before the words. Another part couldn't help but think they didn't sound… right.

Simon was being selfless _and _going against his coven – defying two rules that her father had claimed applied uniformly to Downworlders. The thought that her father could be wrong in _anything _was unfamiliar and jarring, but she knew she was right about Simon. She knew this wasn't some farce that he was putting on to fool her, she knew his innocence was real. Her hunter's heart had sensed his innocence the first time she met him.

There were exceptions to every rule, she decided. Simon wasn't a monster, but that didn't mean all vampires had redeeming qualities. An unwelcome memory of Felix affirmed the thought.

Maybe Simon was just special, somehow. Maybe there was something about his soul, something strong enough to overpower the demonic influence that had overtaken his body, stolen his mortality. Or maybe every Downworlder was like this, at first. Clinging to their humanity with the last of their strength. Maybe, eventually, Simon would lose his gentleness and kindness and his human-like qualities as he inevitably became more and more a part of Downworld. Maybe all she was observing was a natural process, a gradual loss of humanity opposed to the sudden transition she had once thought.

The more she thought about it, the less everything made sense. A part of her longed for Jace's company; things were less complicated with him. Like they already knew each other, and they didn't have to think about it. They had had another argument before she left to meet Simon – they argued often – but she knew, somehow, that he would still be welcoming when she returned to the Institute, and that she would be glad to see him too.

"Simon," she said to break the uncomfortable silence. "Thank you for giving me a ride. I don't think I've said it yet, but I'm glad I asked you and not someone else. So… thanks." He deserved that much, didn't he? Her gratitude for his kindness, at least? She wondered if, when he died, he would know of her part in Valentine's plans. When he died, would he remember moments like this, where she was Clary and she enjoyed his company and she didn't treat him like a monster? Or would he know she was Seraphina by then, and see her as something more monstrous than even he could imagine?

She hoped it was the former. She hoped that her father wouldn't make her be the one to kill him. Which meant her father could never know she had carried on a relationship like this with him. If he ever discovered how cordial she was being towards Simon, he would make sure she was the one to kill him just to make sure she learned her lesson, that she never made the same mistake. He had done it before, and he would do it again.

She resolved to keep Simon a secret from her father. She couldn't save him, but she could save herself from the pain it would cause her to see his death. It was selfish to think that way, and it was wrong to keep things from her father. But still she was decided, comfortable in her own awareness of her horridness. Simon would be her secret, kept in the darkness with all of the others. Safe and soft and furtive.

Simon had been silent for a few moments, his expression unfathomable, and then he nodded once without taking his eyes off of the road. "I'm glad I came with you, too."

They spent a few more minutes in silence, Simon perpetually wincing at Eric's awful music and Clary fighting an urge to do the same. To her relief, Simon eventually lost his patience and shut off the music with a sharp gesture, groaning. The silence afterwards was equal parts relief and dread. Clary was no longer at ease with the serenity of the nature around them. The silence meant her thoughts were louder, and all she could imagine was what would await her when she found her mother.

Casper had performed the tracking spell on Luke's ring earlier and she had gone to meet him that morning to get the address (eliciting yet another argument with Jace, who was irritatingly entitled when it came to who she spent time with). And since then, she couldn't help but imagine every scenario in which she might meet Jocelyn, her mother, for the first time. Would she be greeted with fear? Hatred? Violence? Or was her father right, and it would be a hesitant welcome, a tentative willingness to speak with her?

For what seemed to be the millionth time in just one month, Clary wished for a normal family.

"Don't be afraid," said Simon, misinterpreting her discomfort and anxiety for fear. "I'm sure your mother will be glad to see you."

She couldn't help the bitter laugh that distorted her voice, the anxiety that jumped in her stomach. "I'm sure she won't be."

"Why wouldn't she want to see you?" Simon asked, confused.

"She left me. She never wanted me."

Simon seemed to think for a moment. "I think it was your father she left. Not you."

"My father was a large part of it. But she didn't take me with her. She didn't want me either." She had never said those things out loud, only thought them, and the sound of those thoughts verbalized was so ugly and cruelly truthful that hurt cooled her heart against her will.

"I'm sure that can't be true," Simon argued. "You don't know everything that happened when she left."

"I know enough."

Simon didn't press her, but he seemed deep in thought for a while as they drew closer and closer to the address Casper had given her. Closer to Jocelyn. A woman who had abandoned her, reviled her, hidden from her and ran away, but would somehow – her father claimed – be glad to see her. It didn't make any sense. _Nothing _made sense, and hadn't in a very long time.

Simon broke the silence. "What could you have done that would make her want to leave you? What could be so wrong with you?" He asked the question as though there was no logical answer. He couldn't begin to imagine the truth. And the thought of him thinking of her that way, as someone that no one could find fault with, brought the guilt in her heart to a sickening crescendo.

She was spared having to answer when a dark shape leaped from the trees and ran into the road, startling both of them. Simon yelled as he jerked the wheel to swerve around it. As the car spun past with screeching tires, Clary made out sharp fangs, glinting eyes, a mass of fur all in a dark blur, before they collided sharply with something and the world shattered into swirling colors and shattering glass and the loud bangs and screeches of the van rolling across the pavement.

When they finally came to a stop a timeless span later, they were upside down. Her head was spinning and there was blood in her mouth, and sharp pains in her collarbone and her wrist told her she had broken bones. She coughed, shattered glass tinkling as she moved.

"Clary," Simon gasped from beside her. "Are you okay?"

"Yes." Her voice was raspy and feeble. "I think so."

With some maneuvering, Simon was able to undo his seatbelt and drag himself through his window, and then he was next to her, helping her do the same from outside of the car. Her stele had fallen from her pocket, and she tore the skin of her hands on shattered glass as she dug for it among the wreckage, blood pooling into her mouth every time she coughed.

Simon hovered nervously with his hand on her back as she finally found her stele and drew several iratzes on her skin, relieved to feel her sharp pains dull into ignorable aches. When she was finished, she rose shakily to her feet and Simon followed. They were alone on the dark road, but even in the silence Clary was aware of creatures moving in the forest, watching them.

"Werewolf," she said, referring to the shape that had jumped into the road.

Simon grunted in agreement. "I can smell it. It did that on purpose didn't it?"

"Making us crash? I assume so." She surveyed the trees around them for a sight of the wolf, but she didn't see anything. "It must have known you would try to avoid it."

Simon's laugh was bitter and sharp. "That was awfully optimistic of it."

"Well, it was right, wasn't it?" she said, a bit disgruntledly.

"You think I should have hit it?" he asked, surprised.

"_Duh_," she said, gesturing to the wreckage behind them.

Simon sighed. "Eric's going to kill me."

"I'll tell him it was my fault."

"That might not be a bad idea," said Simon. "He definitely wouldn't stay mad at you for long."

"Why's that?" she asked, already beginning to walk along the road the way they had been travelling before the accident. She wasn't letting Luke's dogs keep her from her mother.

"You're, as he would say, a 'hottie with a body,'" Simon said, following her.

"Ugh," she groaned. "He doesn't actually talk that way, does he?"

"Oh, he says far worse things than that," Simon said with a short laugh.

"Well, I'm glad you don't."

Simon smiled, and she was struck again by how _nice _he was. It was strange; comforting and sickening at the same time. She had never met anyone as kind as him. And he was a _vampire. _

"If my bearings are right, the fastest way to the house is through the forest," she said, averting her course from the road to the dense grass before the trees. She paused before stepping into the forest.

"Look, Simon," she said, stopping to turn and face him. "I think you should… Well, I should probably handle this by myself from here."

"You don't want me to come?" he asked, confused and a bit hurt.

"I just don't want you to get hurt. I didn't know Lucian would have his werewolves guarding the place, and I'd feel awful dragging you into this mess with me."

"I volunteered to go into this mess with you," he argued.

"That was before you knew how messy it was. I appreciate the ride, Simon, really. And I owe you a huge favor. But now your mortal enemies are all over the place, and, like you said, you were already taking a risk just coming here at all."

He groaned. "I shouldn't have told you that. And you don't owe me anything. This is what friends do. I want to help."

_Friends._ The thought of it made her pause, and Simon began walking again now that she wasn't arguing with him. Were they really friends?

"Simon," she called after him when she recovered, jogging to catch up with his long stride. She had never noticed how tall he was. "Really, Simon, you don't have to –"

"I'm not leaving, Clary. I know you're an amazing fighter, but even you can't take on an entire werewolf pack on your own."

"Will you make much of a difference?" she asked uncertainly.

"Ouch," he said, wincing. "Harsh."

"I didn't mean it like that. It's just… have you ever trained, or anything?"

"When the older vampires have the time, they teach us some basic moves. But no, not really." Despite his admission, he was still marching resolutely onward into the dark forest, his jaw set and his pace confident and unhurried.

She grabbed his arm. "Simon, please just wait by the car."

"What's left of it," he corrected with a grin.

"This isn't funny!" she whined. "Simon, there are werewolves everywhere. And you're a vampire."

"You don't need to remind me. Today I tripped into a patch of sunlight and got a bald spot."

"Where?" she asked excitedly, instantly distracted from their argument.

"It grew back, thank you very much," he said, laughing as he dodged her attempts to pull his head closer to her. She abandoned her efforts when she realized, with disappointment, that his bald spot was nowhere to be found.

"I didn't know vampires tripped. Aren't you supposed to be graceful, or something?" she asked.

"I'm not like most vampires," he said sarcastically.

"You aren't," she agreed more seriously. "I've never met a vampire like you before."

"Have you met many?"

"No," she admitted. "But enough to know you're different."

"I think you just had a bad draw with Felix. We really aren't that bad."

She didn't agree with him, but she didn't want to start an argument. She thought about asking him to go back to the car again – because they _were _friends, she had realized, and she didn't want him to be hurt. But he had been very resolute when he told her that he wasn't leaving her side, and his presence was more comforting than she was willing to admit.

Noticing her silence, he had slowed his pace and turned to her, his skin luminously pale in the moonlight. "Are you afraid?" he asked her softly.

With the throbbing pain from her recently broken bones and the imposing darkness of the forest, and the soft, distant growls in the night, she didn't have the energy to deny it. She nodded, remembering how it had felt to have her skin torn open by vicious wolves in a dark forest, remembered staring into brown eyes, so like Simon's, and watching the life ripped away from them as her father's arrow tore through flesh and blood to halt a beating heart. She remembered murdering two lovers and watching them die staring into each other's eyes, while all the while it felt like she was the one who was dying.

Simon threaded his fingers through hers, his hand cool and gentle, and the chaos in her mind blurred into a distant roar. She was grateful for his calm, steady presence next to her as they traipsed over roots and through thick, thorny plants. The forest was thick here, obviously untraveled, but along with discomfort it also meant that the wolves weren't bothering them. Clary knew they would be waiting, though, near Jocelyn. She knew she should just admit defeat, that she was being selfish dragging Simon into her fight, but she couldn't find it in her heart to give up. Every moment of desperation and doubt and anguish in the past days of searching for Jocelyn had led to this – to finding her, to being closer to making her father happy. She couldn't give up.

About twenty minutes later, they emerged from the forest to find themselves on a hill above a small, picturesque farmhouse, and before it the forest formed a tall, dark crescent around a clearing bathed in moonlight. Clary had forgotten what true silence was like, after so many days in New York, but standing there above a lonely house, with only the sound of the wind whistling through the trees, she remembered. She longed for home with a harrowing ache that almost surprised her with its force.

And then howls broke the silence of the night with a haunting wail, and lithe shadows emerged from the trees on all sides of the clearing at the foot of the hill on which they stood. More than a dozen wolves bayed and snarled into the darkness in a vicious challenge, their rough howls singing of blood and killing.

"Wow," said Simon beside her. "Maybe your mother really _doesn't _want to see you."

"Told you," she said, but the words lacked conviction. A part of her had hoped he was right about her mother. _That was stupid._

She turned to Simon, surprised to see that he was fairly calm – though she did see fear in his dark eyes and the set of his jaw. "Last chance to wait for me by the van," she offered.

He met her eyes. "No, I'm still coming. Maybe if I tell the other vampires I killed a bunch of werewolves, they'll finally stop calling me The Little Vampire."

Clary stared as the number of wolves in the clearing grew; all of them angry, all of them vicious and snarling and ready to kill. "How did he know I was coming?" Clary wondered aloud to herself.

"Who?" Simon asked, keeping his gaze on the wolves below them.

"Luke. I assume those are his wolves; he's a leader of a pack in the city. I knew he was with my mother, but I didn't think he would bring his wolves with him. In fact, last I checked, he _didn't_."

"The Downworld in New York is larger than you'd think. And more interconnected. You never know who might have seen you, or when. Someone must have warned him." With those words, Clary was reminded of the reason she had befriended Simon in the first place, and her guilt at disobeying her father in that regard abated somewhat.

"When I invited you, I never thought I was getting you into this much trouble," said Clary apologetically.

"Believe it or not, I had a feeling you would get me into this much trouble. And I came anyway. So stop feeling bad."

Clary stared at the wolves for a moment longer, her brow furrowing.

"You didn't stop feeling bad, did you?" he asked.

"No."

Simon sighed. "I can take care of myself. I'm older than you, remember?"

"Only by a year," she argued.

"Yeah, but I'm a vampire. You'd be surprised how much dying ages you," he said with a grin.

She rolled her eyes. "It's so endearing how you make light of your own damnation," she said sarcastically.

"Striking? Endearing? Might want to slow down with the compliments before I get the wrong idea."

Clary told him to shut up, but she couldn't help her smile or help marveling over how, even in a situation like this, he had managed to push back the darkness.

"I want to go back home," she said suddenly, surprising even herself.

"Really?" Simon asked with raised eyebrows. "But finding your mom is… important to you."

"Not this important. Not important enough to get both of us hurt, or worse. She isn't worth it." Her father would be furious for letting this opportunity slip past her, but she realized just how much she meant those words. Simon – who had taken it upon himself to befriend her despite her meanness and her efforts against it; who had given up his night to follow her into danger, knowing he had nothing to gain and everything to lose – didn't deserve to die for Jocelyn – who had betrayed an entire organization of people she had once considered friends and allies, fellow Shadowhunters; who had abandoned her children with the very man she found so insane and abusive and awful.

"We're leaving," she told Simon definitively.

She grabbed his hand and turned back to the forest behind them when a noise stopped her in her tracks. The crack of a twig, a soft padding against dry leaves. And then a low snarl, vibrating through the summer air with deadly softness. And then another joined it, and another.

"I don't think we're going anywhere," said Simon dubiously.

"Your commentary isn't helping," she told him shortly. "Let's go."

Using her grip on his hand, she turned around and propelled them down the hill to the clearing where the farmhouse lay, just as the wolves behind them burst from the trees with loud howls. The wolves below them sprang into action, and Clary realized that this had all been a trap. One group had herded them here, to this clearing, while another waited to tear them apart. She couldn't help the sting of betrayal that sparked in her chest. She really had underestimated her mother's vehemence in avoiding her. Her father had said she would be at least somewhat willing to receive her, or at least _see _her. But Jocelyn quite obviously wanted nothing to do with her.

Jocelyn quite obviously wanted to kill her.

She didn't have time to think about why her father had misled her so horribly. She didn't have time to think of whether she was disappointed or relieved that her mother wanted a war instead of a relationship. Because a pack of bloodthirsty werewolves was rushing towards her and Simon, fangs bared and snapping.

She increased her speed to pull in front of Simon, drawing a Seraph blade from its sheath and whispering its name into the tense silence before the chaos began. Time slowed, her heart sped, and the night air, already heavy with the heat of midsummer, sparked with an ancient anger and brutal bloodlust. The light of her Seraph blade was reflected in the black eyes of the wolf closest to her, and for a moment everything was suspended in weighted silence.

And then the world erupted into chaos. The first wolf yelped as her blade swiped through its shoulder with a bone-crunching _crack_, another snarled as it sprang for Simon. She whirled around and drew her dagger, throwing it with deadly speed and watching as it impaled the wolf's shoulder, sending it crashing to the ground with Simon unharmed before it.

Simon was smart enough not to stay in one place, darting to the side just as another wolf leaped for where he had stood. When he landed a hit on a grey wolf that sent it sprawling to the side, she turned her back on him completely to deal with the wolves before her. There were too many of them; Simon would have to fend for himself.

The fight was too close for weapons, so Clary relied on hand-to-hand combat – which proved more complicated than she anticipated, considering her opponents didn't _have _hands. Luckily, the wolves, though vicious, didn't seem to want her dead. As she noticed them slashing their claws at her ankles and wrists rather than going for deadly blows, she guessed they were under orders to drive her away but not kill her.

Unfortunately for them, she had no such orders. And she was _angry_.

Whenever it was possible, she darted her gaze away from the battle for a moment to glance at the farmhouse, each time finding it lifeless and dark. Her blows on the wolves only became more and more vicious as her frustration grew, and she noticed that many retreated into the forest once they had been injured, even if the blow wasn't crippling. They weren't taking the fight very seriously. They weren't risking their lives for this.

Their lack of interest in victory could only mean one thing: they were only a distraction.

A distraction, most likely, to give Jocelyn and Lucian time to run. Again.

And then she saw it – a flash of orange flying past one of the front windows for a brief, heart-lurching moment. Clary stared at the farmhouse intently, only half of her mind focused on the fight, ignoring the horrible pain in her wrist when an eager young wolf tore into her skin with vicious excitement. _Jocelyn_. The name rang through her mind, pulsed through her body at the same rate as the lurching beats that sent blood pooling across her skin.

And then, just after she dismantled the wolf that had injured her, she saw it again. Pale skin, red hair, a small figure darting through the dark farmhouse with hurried purpose. _Jocelyn_. Clary could feel that it was her mother, just as poignantly as she felt claws tearing into her skin.

Her blows became even more brutal, as if she could pour the grief and anger in her own heart into the souls before her, the hearts bared by battle. She was faster than them, maybe not stronger, but smarter. But there were too many of them.

Even after all these years, Jocelyn was a coward. Judging by their size, the werewolves before her were young. Not much older than her. And Jocelyn was hiding behind them, watching from the window of a perfect little farmhouse as they suffered injury and tried to tear her daughter apart.

Clary wasn't sure she had ever felt an anger like this. _This must be hatred_, she thought distantly.

_Jocelyn, Jocelyn_. Her mother's name was a mantra running through her mind, a sick chant sending hatred and fear and bitter rage pouring into her chest and pooling into her mouth. _Find her._ Her worry for Simon was consumed in the chaos, and then she was running across the clearing, destroying everything in her path. A warning instinct restrained her to crippling rather than fatal blows, but her control wavered with her desperation, and by the time she reached the fence near the farmhouse she had claimed several souls with her killer's hands. She knew it wasn't in her best interest – she wanted Luke's trust, eventually. But he had set his wolves on her in the first place.

As a werewolf lunged toward her, teeth bared and snarling, Clary caught sight of a flash of orange in the window again. _Jocelyn_. The sight made her vision run red, and she viciously broke the wolf's neck before she ran for the house.

But a strangled cry, familiar and agonized, tore through the noise of snarls and growls and halted her in her tracks. She whipped around to see Simon only barely fending off a pair of wolves, an alarming amount of blood pouring across his pale skin, and her heart clenched. She tore her gaze away from him to stare at the house again, but she couldn't see Jocelyn anymore. If she didn't act quickly, Jocelyn would manage to get away and Clary would lose her.

Which is why she cursed herself as she turned away from the farmhouse and sprinted across the grass, lunging for one of the wolves and managing a brutal slice of her Seraph blade at the other while she was at it. Simon took on the wounded one as she grappled with the other, and later she took on his opponent after neatly slaying her own. Simon collapsed as soon as their assailants were dealt with – one dead and the other dying – and Clary leaped forward to slow his fall, wrapping her arms around him as he slid to the ground.

"Simon," she breathed worriedly, as finally the wolf beside them rasped its dying breaths. Clary scanned their surroundings and saw that the remaining wolves were retreating into the forest, called off by a silent cue she couldn't recognize. She glanced at the house and then paused in surprise – Jocelyn was still standing at a window, no longer rushing about within the farmhouse but watching her. Her heart jumped. She couldn't see the woman clearly through the glare of the moon against the glass, but she saw orange-red hair, pale skin, a small figure. She knew that Jocelyn was staring at her, too.

But then Simon lurched beneath her hands, and she tore her attention back to him. "Simon," she said again. "Can you hear me? Are you alright?"

He nodded feebly, but the blood covering his skin told a different story. His eyes rolled back into his head and she heard the gurgle of blood in his throat, and worry and terror constricted her chest so tightly that she couldn't breathe and she could barely think.

"Simon," she said his name, over and over. "What do I do? _Simon_."

He managed to open his eyes, barely, slits of deep brown in the paleness of his face as he looked at her. She felt tears pool in her eyes at the sight of him, so hurt and helpless, and she took the hand he offered her with shaking fingers. "Clary," he whispered her name. He jerked beneath her hands, his muscles shaking and tensing as his eyes slid shut once more. She tightened her grip on him, but she had no idea how to help him, no idea what was happening or what he needed. And then he went limp in her arms, still and silent.

"Oh, God," she whispered. Was he dead? There was no way to know. His heart was already motionless in his chest, his skin already pale with the touch of death and eternal night.

And then a thought occurred to her. _Blood_. What if he needed it, to replace the blood he had lost? A throbbing pain brought her gaze to her wrist, and she saw that a long gash was sending blood pooling across her arm. She stared at the wound, and then at Simon, and felt a riff tear her heart in half. All she needed to do was bring her wrist to his mouth, let him drink for a few seconds. He didn't need to touch her, his fangs didn't need to touch her; she was losing the blood anyway. It wouldn't be hard.

But she couldn't. She tried to make her wrist move, stared at Simon's lifeless body and felt the pain in her heart and told herself that this was what she wanted. But she couldn't do it.

She heard her father's voice in her mind, so certain and persuasive as he told her that even Downworlders who used to be human didn't deserve to be alive, that they had already died and their existence was a soulless second-life, a shadow of the human lives they had had before. Maybe it would be a mercy to let him die; the death he was supposed to have had months ago. Maybe it would be cruel to drag him back to this life. Empty, meaningless, soulless, unnatural.

She applied those words to Simon and they didn't fit. They met the gentleness of his heart and his firm, resolved kindness and they faltered and shattered, obliterated by the memories she had acquired of his soft smile and his warm eyes and his tender touch.

The sound of car tires on gravel road broke the silence of the night, but she barely heard it. She was completely consumed by her conflict, so immersed in her memories of Simon and her father that they had begun to join and mingle in strange ways. _Vampires are parasites, empty vessels that once housed the souls of innocents. Those souls are gone now, and only a demon's instinct remains, driven to carnage and parasitism to fuel its own existence and heed it's creator's will_, her father explained, and behind him was a poorly-made drawing of a mundane superhero, and Simon was beside it, laughing as he showed it to her.

Her father's arm flashed toward her and she felt an awful, bright pain in her face as Simon held her hand softly in a dark forest.

Her wrist twitched, moving towards Simon's lips.

And then Simon gasped, his eyes flying open as he coughed roughly. She tightened her grip on him, helping him into a somewhat sitting position as he caught his breath – unnecessarily, she thought, but it seemed normal.

"Simon," she said, and she had said his name so often by then that it had lost its meaning, becoming an unfamiliar string of sounds. It was a beautiful sound. "Are you alright?"

He nodded, but he still leaned heavily against her, his bones pressing into her skin. "Yes," he said, his voice rasping. "I'm alright."

"What happened?" she asked, glancing around them to make sure the werewolves were still gone.

"Werewolf got me pretty bad," he explained, wincing as he probed his ribcage. "I think one of my ribs punctured something. Nothing that can't heal itself, but werewolf saliva slows our healing process."

"Could you have died?" she asked softly.

"Maybe," he said, seeming to consider the thought. "I thought I was dying. But it doesn't matter; I didn't. I'll be fine, I promise."

Now that she wasn't mindless in her worry for Simon, she remembered a noise – tires against gravel – processing it now, and she realized what it meant. She hunched over, her hands pressed to her face in almost disbelieving agony. She had lost Jocelyn. _Again_. Why was this _happening _to her? She was supposed to be finished by now. Home, with her brother.

"Clary?" Simon asked worriedly, and she felt a cool weight on her shoulder. It was his hand, gentle and comforting. "Are you hurt?"

"My mother," she said. "She's gone. She left."

Simon's hand tightened on her shoulder before he let go. "I'm sorry. I distracted you, I shouldn't have –"

"No," she interrupted, turning to look at him. His eyes were black in the moonlight, almost like her brother's but not quite as dark. "It isn't your fault. Like I said, I shouldn't have dragged you here in the first place."

"Like _I _said, you didn't drag me. I knew what I was doing."

"I thought the werewolves would focus their attack on me, since I'm the one they really wanted to keep away. But I should have realized they would be vicious with you, since you're a..."

"Vampire?" Simon finished bitterly with a small, sad smile. She nodded. "I don't like saying it either," he murmured.

His words surprised her. All this time, she had thought of his vampirism as something _she _had to worry about, something that created conflict and doubt in _her _heart. She realized now that she had been selfish. She had never thought about what it must feel like for him. To lose your life so violently, and then to wake up and realize you had lost much more than that. Your family, your soul, an entire world of sunlight and innocence and blissful ignorance.

"I'm so sorry, Simon," she whispered. "This is my fault. I knew from the beginning that I should just handle all of this by myself, but I… I _can't_."

"You shouldn't have to," he said, and then he was the one holding her.

He sat up, shifting so that he could wrap his arms around her, and even though he was even colder than she was, it was comforting. For a moment, she was able to forget the awful mess she was in.

Only for a moment, though, and then it all came rushing back. How was she going to fix _this_? She could find Jocelyn again, of that she was certain. But if Jocelyn was this adamant about keeping her away, what was she supposed to _do_? Maybe it was time to ask her father for help. Maybe Simon was right, and he shouldn't have asked her to do this alone in the first place.

She couldn't think about Jocelyn anymore. That woman didn't deserve Clary's anguish.

But Simon did. "The sun will be coming up soon," Clary said. "We need to get you home."

"How?" he asked; surprisingly unconcerned, considering the rising sun meant his imminent death. "The van's ruined."

"I know what to do. Come on." She helped him to his feet, relieved that his strength seemed to have returned. They stayed close together as she led them up to the farmhouse, their arms brushing against each other's; Clary was more than prepared to help him if he looked weak again, but Simon seemed perfectly fine. She shook herself out of the uneasiness it caused her by reminding herself that Shadowhunters had their own ways of miraculous healing. There were certainly aspects of Simon's vampirism that were unnerving, but this didn't need to be one of them. She didn't want to be unnerved by him anymore. She didn't want to feel so conflicted about him all the time. It was exhausting, and neither of them deserved it.

The door to the farmhouse was unlocked, and they entered into a dark living room. Paintings adorned the walls, and Clary wondered if they were her mother's. A painting that captured almost precisely the appearance of Brocelind Forest in the moonlight answered her, like a whispered beckon. _Come home_, it said.

_I'm trying._

She tore her gaze away from the paintings. She didn't want to see her mother's dreams imprinted on canvas. She wouldn't have anything to do with Jocelyn at all, if it were up to her.

"Do you want to look around?" Simon asked.

She shook her head.

"Then… What are you looking for?" he asked, following her as she looked into every room she passed.

"The right wall."

"The right… what?"

"I need to find the right wall. Then we can go home."

She darted into a door on their left and found herself in a small bedroom. "Found it," she called to Simon.

"Found the… wall?" he asked, his cool presence settling behind her right shoulder.

She nodded, gesturing to the wall before her. "It doesn't have windows, and there isn't furniture blocking it. It's perfect."

"It's so beautiful," Simon breathed, and she shoved him.

"Shut up. You'll be grateful soon enough."

She ignored his laughter as she stepped forward, drawing her stele. She took a deep breath to calm her shaking hands, still haunted by the memory of Simon's lifeless body beneath them. _He's alright, he's alright_, she repeated to herself, while glowing swirls and angles spun from the tip of her stele as she drew angelic power into the plain white plaster.

When she was finished, a point of color swirled in the center of the rune. And then it was growing, expanding in all directions until a spectrum of ever-shifting colors consumed the wall with brilliant light.

She gestured for Simon to stand beside her. "Alright, Simon, this is important. This is a portal. We're going to use it to get you home." When he nodded his understanding, she continued, "I've only been to your house once, so I don't trust myself with this part. Think of somewhere we could exit the portal where no one would see us. An alley or something, close to your house. Whatever place you choose, you need to keep that image in your mind, and make sure you include details so we don't end up somewhere else."

"I think I know a place," he said, but he sounded nervous.

"Then let's go." She nudged him forward, closer to the portal.

But then, "Wait!" she stopped him. "My dagger, I forgot…"

"It's right there," he said, halting her dash to the door.

She looked down and, sure enough, the fairy dagger was in its sheath. "But… That isn't possible. I _threw _it, I know I did…"

"Maybe you picked it up and forgot," he suggested, far less concerned than she was.

"Maybe…" she said doubtfully. A glance at the portal shook her out of her musing over the dagger. "We don't have much time before the portal starts to close."

Simon stepped forward, squaring his shoulders. "Alright… So, I just walk through? No magic words?"

She shook her head. "No. As soon as you're ready, just walk into it."

"What about you?"

She took his hand, threading their fingers together. "I'll be right behind you. As long as we don't let go of each other, we'll end up in the same place."

He nodded, blowing out a deep breath. He closed his eyes, furrowing his brow as he concentrated on whatever location he had chosen.

And then he tightened his hand around hers, stepping forward until they were consumed by bright light and swirling colors. And then there was only blackness – heavy silence, Simon's hand in hers, both of them weightless and breathless and floating and being dragged forward, as if into a black hole.

They fell into reality with a jolting lurch, both of them stumbling on concrete with uneasy steps until they steadied themselves, still holding hands.

"Right place?" Clary asked Simon, glancing around at an alley occupied only by dumpsters and puddles and a single, terrified cat that skittered away from them.

"Yeah," he answered. "My house is only a few blocks away."

With a glance at the lightening sky above them, she dropped his hand and made for the mouth of the alley. "Better hurry," she called back to him. "I think we've had enough close calls for one night, don't you?"

"More than enough," he muttered, catching up to her. "I never want to see another werewolf again."

She sighed in agreement. "Awful, aren't they?"

They lapsed into silence after that,

"Simon," she said, after they had traveled a few blocks in silence. "When I thought you were dying, earlier," she began, and he turned to look at her. "I didn't know what to do. But…I _want_ to know. I want you to tell me. If something like that happened again, and you were really dying… what should I do?"

He didn't answer her right away, and he avoided her gaze as they continued along the dark, empty street.

"Blood," she breathed, her voice soft with the effort it took to force the ugly word through her lips. "That's what you would need, isn't it?"

Simon stopped walking so suddenly she almost ran into him, and he was surprisingly assertive, almost angry, when he turned to her. "I never want you to do that for me," he said firmly. "Not ever."

His fervor startled her, and she didn't start walking again until a few seconds after he did. His answer had surprised her, but the more she thought about it the more she realized it wasn't surprising at all.

As she followed him to his house, she tried to forget about all the times she had caught him looking at her with something frighteningly deep and gentle in his eyes, searching and marveling. She tried to forget the tender, cool press of his skin when he noticed she was upset or hurt or nervous.

She tried to forget that, if he had died, his last word would have been her name. _Clary_, he had said, as if he could pour every ounce of the pain and longing and light in his heart into a single word. Her name.

Her thoughts came to a sudden halt when she recognized Simon's small, brick house and stopped before it, gazing up at Simon as the setting moon cast a luminescent white light across his pale skin. His eyes looked fathomlessly deep in that light, and she wished she were better at painting; a drawing could never capture the look of Simon's eyes in the darkness.

"Thank you," she told him, trying to pour her emotion into the words the same way he had, so that he knew she meant it.

"I'm sorry things didn't go the way you planned," he answered.

"So am I."

"Goodnight, Clary," he whispered, wavering uncertainly before the gate to his front yard as he gazed into her eyes. Blood – his blood – was flecked across his neck, and looking at it she was overcome by everything she had tried so hard to ignore that night.

He had begun to walk away from her, but she reached out to grasp his wrist. He turned back to her, his eyes burning with a fierce hope that she couldn't bear to look at. She wrapped her arms around his thin waist, burying her face in his chest to escape his eyes. And then he was holding her too, his arms gentle but steady, and she could feel his ribs under her arms and the sharpness of his shoulder blades beneath her fingers, and she couldn't help but hold him tighter.

"Simon," she whispered his name into his shirt, and his fingers tightened on her waist. For a moment, she marveled at the feeling of him. Of how delicate his bones felt against her despite his height, of the smell of soap in his skin, the way his breath stirred her hair and the careful way he held her, as though she was precious and delicate and he knew she was falling apart.

The moment felt incredibly fragile. And when they pulled away from each other it shattered like a thousand falling stars, and she was left alone in the sparkling ruins with nothing to show for it but blood on her clothes and the scent of Simon's soap in her skin and an aching hole in her chest. Simon looked down at her and she saw remnants of it in his eyes, a shining glimmer of grief and uncertainty, and she imagined the same thing was reflected in her eyes too as she stared up at him, once more plunged into indecision and obscurity about how she felt. For a moment it had been clear to her – who he was and how she felt about him – but then her father's teachings and her memories had rushed back into her, and there they clashed with her instincts and her sentimentality and she was torn in half.

Simon, either sensing her conflict or uninterested in doing so, didn't press her for more than what she had given him. "The sun is coming up," he said quietly, gazing at the horizon. "I should go inside." He turned back to her. "Regardless of what happened, I'm glad we were together."

She nodded. "Me too. But I'm –"

"Not sorry," he interrupted. "Don't be sorry. Everything's fine Clary. It almost wasn't, but it is." As careful and controlled as over, so careful it was almost hesitant, he leaned down to kiss her forehead. "Don't worry about me. I'll see you soon."

He didn't leave her time to answer as he turned away and retreated into the darkness of his house. She stared after him for a moment, feeling the shadowy ghost of his cool weight in her arms, before she turned away and began the long, lonely journey home.

Though she had told Jace she would be back that night, she went to her apartment instead of the Institute. She wanted to be alone. Her mind was so swollen with worry and confusion that she felt she might collapse under the weight of it.

Earlier that night, she had resolved herself to the idea of Simon's death. But the reality of it had been so, terribly different. She had thought herself indifferent to him – affectionate, maybe, but only in that supercilious, aloof way she allowed herself on occasion for people who sparked her interest. She had admired his kindness without processing how extraordinary it was. She had reveled in his gentleness without realizing how much she needed it – with a desperate, lonely thirst that throbbed in every bone in her body.

And then he had disappeared from her, for only a moment, and all of those things came crashing into her. In a rational realm of consciousness she told herself she barely knew Simon, that it was ridiculous to be so upset by a vampire's near-brush with the death he already belonged to. But Simon was no longer a vampire – he was _Simon_. And the kindness that she had taken for granted meant more to her than she had realized. And she didn't want to live without it. And she didn't know if she could.

Eventually, after hours of tortured musings, she drifted into a restless sleep. She dreamed that Simon was dying, and she tried to save him. She watched him collapse to the ground, his muscles slack and weak as blood poured across the moonlight pale of his shivering skin, and as she watched she felt her own heart stutter and thunder as if it were dying in place of the heart that had already died in his chest.

A knowing as old and deep as the angel's blood that bore her knew what would save him. This time, she found the courage. This time, she knew she didn't want him to die. She leaned forward, bared her throat, felt his arms wrap around her as he nuzzled her neck, deceptively tender. Their breath mingled, the world silent around them as he brushed the hair away from her neck and rested his cool lips against her warm skin. She shivered. And then his fangs were piercing her skin and sinking into her veins, and she felt her blood drawn out of her and into his heart in lurching pulses. She felt her blood moving through him, felt the essence of herself filtering through a gentle mind and pooling into a heart filled with light.

But her blood burned him, and he died before her eyes. Her blood was molten gold, and he choked on it even as she watched it ignite his veins with heavenly fire, and then he was burning, burning from the inside out, and she screamed and held him as he burst into flames that didn't burn her skin but burned him to ashes. All that remained were his eyes, floating in nothingness, gazing at her with sadness and pain but none of the anger that she deserved.

And then her father rose from Simon's ashes like a phoenix re-born, shining gloriously as if the rays of a thousand splendid suns were bursting through him, and he flooded the world with blinding white light. Only she remained in darkness, alone and empty, forgotten and cold. And she stayed there forever, her blood leaving her body in golden drops that scorched the earth she lay on, poisoning the life within.

* * *

**Even though I had a list of excuses for the whole chapter length thing, I do feel like a jerk about it. Sorry. But, like I said, the next chapter is almost done. **

**Look, guys, I _know _updates take a while, and I'm genuinely sorry. But during theses breaks, I'm not just writing one chapter, I'm working on the entire story. I'm in this for the long haul. Like, so long you'll probably get tired of me. If you aren't already.**

_**Long**_

_**haul.**_

**Again, thank you for the reviews on the last chapter. Guest reviewers - sorry I can't answer you personally, but I appreciate you guys just as much. **

**I think you'll like the next chapter.**

**Thanks for reading. I hope to hear your thoughts. **


End file.
